A Place of Greater Danger
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: Prince Arthur is dead. To fill the void, King Henry and Queen Elizabeth pin all their hopes on one last baby to heal their grief and bring hope to the nation. This time, a healthy Prince is born, but the tragedy of Queen Elizabeth's death will be a burden of guilt that dogs his every move. Until, a Lady returns to the English Court and teaches him how to live. Full summary inside.
1. Great Expectations

**Summary:** Following the death of Prince Arthur, Elizabeth of York and Henry VII seek to fill the void with a new baby. The expectations are great: not only will he relieve the burden on the shoulders of his older brother, Prince Henry, by being the 'spare'; he is to be the new 'Arthur', that golden Prince who had cemented the Tudor Dynasty and brought hope to the nation. But, as Elizabeth dies just hours after his birth, it all starts to go wrong. Resented for causing the death of the Queen, blamed for sparking Henry VII's downward spiral into paranoia and borderline tyranny, the over-looked Prince struggles to find his place in the world. Until, a certain Lady Anne returns from the Continent, cultured and beautiful, to take the English Court by storm. The King, Henry VIII, is smitten, but so is someone else…

**Author's Note:** after a long hiatus from The Tudors fandom (nearly a year!), I had this plot bunny suddenly pop into my head. I've placed Anne Boleyn's birth at 1500 (just a year before most Historians place it) and, obviously, changed the gender of EoY's last child and let him live (where Princess Catherine died alongside Elizabeth). This chapter is just an introduction to set the scene, so time jumps will follow. Usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Please read and, if you have a minute, review. Thank you!

Special thanks go to: **Lady Eleanor Boleyn** for coming up with the Prince's name (and ending a surprisingly indecisive few days). Also, to **Mimi** for not letting me give up on The Tudors fandom, despite my repeated failures.

* * *

**Chapter One: Great Expectations (Prologue)**

Queen Elizabeth wasn't afraid. Not this time. She reclined in her tester bed, propped up against a bank of freshly plumped pillows and turned the page of her book as another small contraction arrived. Sharper than the others, she still didn't let it bother her. Arthur was the worst. Her most cherished child also being the most difficult to deliver. She had no experience; had heard every childbed horror story going and felt the hand of the Grim Reaper on her elbow at every twinge throughout that first pregnancy. Margaret was easier. Edmund and Elizabeth, easier still. Henry had been like shelling peas; as for Mary, Elizabeth was up and about in her chambers after just one week.

Despite all that, Elizabeth had endured eight months of people telling her, in not so many words, that the child currently in her belly would kill her. If the last seven were anything to go by, then she knew it would be hour upon hour of agony, followed by days, weeks, months of elation at the birth of a new child. God knows, as well, that she and Henry needed it after so much devastating loss. Edmund went first. Then Princess Elizabeth. Then, most devastatingly of all, Prince Arthur. Barely one year ago, she and Henry were making secret plans for the arrival of their first (purely conjectured) grandchild. Until one dank, lightless day in April, a messenger arrived from Ludlow and their world was blown apart.

One year on, there was still an acute, gnawing pain where Arthur should be. As if to reinforce the point, another contraction came to knock the breath physically out of her lungs. She dropped the book, pursed her lips and blew out a steady breath, a whistle of air to regulate her thrumming heart. As soon as her body permitted, she sat up and rested one hand lightly on the swell of her stomach.

"Hattie," she said, raising her eyes to a nearby midwife. "Inform the King that his son is on the way."

Hattie dropped the towels she was soaking in hot water and bobbed the Queen a curtsey.

"Yes, Your Grace."

From there, it seemed to spiral. Within hours, the fires had been stoked to the point of blazing inferno to ward off even the faintest of February chills. Henry had been baffled by her choice of The Tower as her place of lying in, and as the labour progressed, Elizabeth had to concede his point. The maids and midwives struggled up narrow, twisting staircases as they relayed the Queen's progress, fetched the necessities of the birth and hauled buckets of fresh water from the kitchens, three levels below. The logistical nightmare of the ageing fortress conspired against them, continually.

During an unexpected break in her pains, Elizabeth fell back against the bank of pillows, now soaked with sweat. Her breath rasped against burning lungs as her cracked lips formed the words of a half-remembered prayer.

"Come on now, Elizabeth!"

A familiar voice sounded in her ear. Painfully, Elizabeth twisted her stiffening neck and caught sight of the Countess of Devon, her sister. A rush of relief and happiness washed over her.

"Catherine!" she panted, reaching out for her hand, grasping it for dear life.

Catherine smiled at her, a pale effort given the fear in her eyes.

"Just breathe," she advised. "Remember the others; you know what to do and you can still do it."

She tried to nod, but the effort was too much for too little reward.

"What time of day is it, sister?"

Elizabeth couldn't think why that had suddenly become so important, but it had.

"It is nearing midnight, Your Grace," replied Catherine. "Almost the eleventh day of February."

"My Birthday," Elizabeth rasped. Her eyes swam with tears. "And what a way to commemorate it!"

The idea of sharing her birthday with her youngest child filled her with an inexplicable joy. Almost enough to ride out the next contraction that tore at her muscle. Catherine, a mother herself, got up on the bed behind her for bodily support as Elizabeth bore down on herself with as much force as she could muster. Catherine rubbed her back, kneading at the muscles of Elizabeth's shoulders while whispering words of encouragement in her ear. She tried to grasp the ropes that hung from the roof beams, but her hands were too slick with sweat to keep a grip.

Midnight came and went. By that time, the contractions were like a restless sea: wave followed wave of pain without let up. Drained, exhausted, unable to even scream any more, Elizabeth gave up. She lay limp in Catherine's arms, her head spinning like a child's top and feeling her grip on consciousness slacken. Catherine was still talking – a wordless buzz that had long since ceased to have any meaning. The midwives exchanged worried glances; a physician withdrew a long, steel implement from a leather bag. Elizabeth could see it glimmering dully in the light. A giant pair of pincers. She makes no move, nor effort to understand anything of what is said to her.

Behind her, Catherine tightens her grip on Elizabeth's shoulders as the Physician disappears between the royal knees. The steel is cold against her skin, colder still as the implement probes inside. Despite the furnace like heat of the chamber, it made her shiver and flinch. Then, moments later, a tearing pain as she feels her insides being pinched and dragged out. Elizabeth found her voice again, screaming as loud as she could through a dangerously parched throat. The pulling and dragging went on for an age, until she could no longer resist the urge to push again.

Then, the breakthrough occurred. The mass of baby, pulled by the Physician and his pincers, slithered reluctantly from between her bloodied thighs. Elizabeth gasped a rush of air as her scream cut out might flight, before collapsing back against the newly changed pillows. Her chest heaved as she struggled to get her breath back. Her lungs rattled so loud she could barely hear Catherine's jubilant exclamation of: "it's a boy!"

The expectant rush of euphoria did not come. In its place, an irresistible pull of unconsciousness came instead. Elizabeth was powerless to fight it.

* * *

King Henry hadn't meant to doze off. The sound of frantic footsteps brought him sharply back into the conscious world with a choke and a sniff. He got his bearings and wrapped his buckram cloak tightly around his shoulders as he got up to receive the visitor. As his Gentleman Usher showed in the Midwife, he felt his mouth run dry with fear.

"Speak," he commanded before she could waste any more time with formal deference.

"The Queen is delivered of a healthy baby boy," she announced, wisely dispensing with preamble.

"And the Queen?" he asked, stepping forwards as every nerve in his body tensed.

The woman's brief moment of hesitation betrayed her.

"The Queen is … well," she replied, at length. "As well as can be expected."

It was folly. He had known it was folly all along, but Elizabeth had been so insistent; had made such a compelling case that he found himself going along with it all. The new baby, it was going to kill her and he couldn't help but shoulder his share of the guilt. The chill in the air cut through him, ignoring his furs. Or was it just that his blood had begun to run cold? No, he never could get the warmth into his body. Tonight, it was worse than ever. He pulled himself together and turned to the Midwife.

"I want to see her," he announced, striding from the room.

Behind him, as he went, he heard the beleaguered woman's voice trailing after him:

"I would advise against it, Your Grace. The Queen is indisposed-"

They were still clearing up when he arrived. Everyone in the room jumped out of their skin as the door burst open and King Henry appeared. He said nothing as his steel-grey eyes scanned the room. Blood soaked sheets; mysterious birthing implements he could put no name to and one broken Queen, unconscious and limbs splayed, on the tester bed. The blood, the smell and the heat combined were unlike anything he had ever experienced before.

He moved to the side of the bed, where Catherine Courtenay, Countess of Devon, still sponged the Queen's brow. Not even the coolest of waters stirred her; her face remained slack in a deep sleep. Nevertheless, he held out his hand to his Sister-in-law.

"I want to do it," he said, quietly.

Catherine wrung the cloth out one more time before handing it over.

"Henry," she said, softly. "The babe-"

He held up his free hand, waving her away. She paused, watched him as he dabbed at Elizabeth's brow. Catherine's face registered the fear Henry kept concealed.

"He is healthy and bonny," she said, finishing her sentence in barely a whisper.

He thought she was going to say more, but the words froze on her lips, she drew a shuddering breath and retreated into the shadows. Once alone with his wife, Henry brushed a kiss against her brow, almost flinching from her burning skin in surprise at just how hot she was. No cooling cloths would sooth her fever. Her breathing was shallow, getting weaker. But, as the first rays of dawn pierced the dark skies, she rallied. Her eyelids fluttered open, showing her piercing blue irises, looking at him the way she did when they were in the first flush of love, all those years ago.

"Bess!" he said, cupping her cheek gently with the palm of his hand. "Elizabeth."

She was too weak to smile, but the corners of his lips twitched as she realised he really was there and that she wasn't just dreaming. Tentatively, testing her own strength, she brought her hand to his, where it rested against her skin.

"Henry," she returned, repeating his name.

He kissed her once more, but when he drew away her eyes had closed again. Her hand fell limp on the coverlet of the bed. By the time the sun had reached its height, on the morning of the Queen's thirty-sixth birthday, she had slipped away and died.

* * *

Margaret Beaufort turned to her Lady-in-Waiting and shook her head. One of her men had been hammering on the door of the Privy Chamber for the last twenty minutes. In between knocks, they all fell silent and listened intently to what was happening on the opposite side of the door. Nothing.

"Maybe he's retired to the inner chambers?" suggested the lady, Tacyn.

Margaret looked at the new born babe resting against Tacyn's chest. Tiny, fragile and, at that moment, fast asleep despite the pounding on the Privy Chamber doors. With the babe's mother dead on a slab in the chapel of rest, she wasn't about to give in and let his father reject him on top of everything else. She reached back into her memories, many years before, on a howling January night when she delivered the King. She was thirteen and a widow, yet wild horses could not have dragged her from her child's side. Just as she could no more stand by and see him defeated by his own grief, several decades later. Not this time; not after everything.

"Sir Reginald, give the King one more chance," she instructed, trying to remain diplomatic. "Or, by the saints, I will bawl through that door like a fishwife until he deigns to show his face in this chamber of presence."

They knew her well enough to know she was not jesting. The unfortunate Sir Reginald did as asked and the silence, once again, was pierced by a sharp rapping on the doors. The baby stirred, a pitiable wail emanating from deep within its swaddling. Seizing the moment, Margaret took over and held him up to the door as he continued to exercise his tiny lungs. Surely, she thought, no parent could resist the cries of their own child. However, after ten minutes, it seemed that King Henry was one of the few who could.

Tacyn stepped forward and took possession of the new Prince while Margaret made good on her promise of shouting through the doors.

"Henry!" she called out, pressing herself up against the doors and slapping the surface with the flat of her hand. "Henry come out now! Your son needs you; all your children need you!"

She realised she had been approaching the problem as a mother. A mother who bonded with her child as it grew in her womb. Men, and her son was a man as well as a King, were different. They had to see the child, to hold him, before that bond formed. If Henry would just come out and see the baby, then his grief for the Queen he had lost would be tempered with joy for the Prince he had gained. But for that, she needed Henry outside, seeing the babe and rediscovering the untainted love that every human being possesses for their new born.

"Elizabeth gave her life for this child, Henry," she bellowed through the door. "So you come out here now and honour her memory through the nourishment of her son. Your son!"

Sir Reginald's eyes were as wide as saucers as he watched the carry on. He implored the Countess of Richmond to be calm before she did herself an injury, but she was beyond reason.

"He has her eyes, Henry," she continued, her voice growing weaker with the effort. "Come and see him; name him and bless him."

These were things that should have been done the moment the Prince was born. Before his father acknowledged him, he was as good as illegitimate. The whole reason this child had been created was to relieve some of the pressure on his elder brother, Prince Henry. An heir and a spare.

Margaret couldn't shout any more. She had already fuelled the gossips with her ungainly behaviour and she had no intention of giving them more than she wanted. The baby's cries ceased, like he already knew he had caused too much fuss for one day. He nestled against Tacyn as he would his mother. Margaret didn't often contemplate defeat, it was never a part of her make up. But, for the first time, she thought she could detect the bitter taste of defeat.

As one, the three of them regrouped, about to walk away when finally the doors opened. They all whirled round to face the King, but it wasn't Henry. It was an abashed looking Yeoman of the Guard. He looked at each in turn apologetically, colour rising in his face.

"I bring a message from His Grace, the King," he explained, hovering in the doorway as though afraid to get too close. "He told me to tell you: the boy's already killed his mother, so name him Richard, after the man who killed her brothers."

All three of them were speechless with shock. Tacyn had to reach out with her free hand to restrain Margaret before she went marching in there. The moment passed and she calmed herself with a deep breath. The Yeoman, meanwhile, shook his head, cringing apologies and trying to disappear on the spot. She wasn't about to shoot the messenger, though.

Margaret drew herself up to her full height, so that she reached the Yeoman's chest. She looked him square in the lapel as she spoke. "Tell the King we are naming the Prince Francis, in hope that it reminds the King of the man who once protected him in his darkest hours," she explained. "He has two days to change his mind. I will not delay the Christening for him."

They tarried no more, turning away from the King's chambers to return the Prince to his nursery. Thankfully, the King and Queen had organised his household long before his birth and the staff were all in place. The only thing they lacked, at the time of the birth, was a wet nurse and Sir Reginald's wife, Lady Margaret Pole, had seen to that. As they passed through the outer chamber, Lady Margaret chanced upon a young man headed towards the King's chambers, proudly clutching diplomatic dispatches. She caught his eye and waved him over.

"Lady Richmond," he bowed, nervously. "I only just heart about the Queen and haven't yet had a chance to change into mourning clothes. Do you think the King will mind if I am late?"

Margaret sighed and shook her head. "Thomas, return to your wife and children and stay there," she advised. "The King even refuses to see his own son. I doubt the machinations of the French Court will revive the joys of life in his soul."

* * *

Elizabeth Howard smoothed down the front of her black mourning gown, allowing her hand to glide over the impossibly apportioned bump. It didn't seem possible that she had another month to go and, as she sat by the fire, she found herself going over the dates again. Anything to stop herself from thinking of the Queen and the manner of her death. But, before long the door to her chamber opened, and a most welcome sight paused in the door way as he took her in.

"Thomas!" she greeted him, finally smiling again as she got up to kiss him.

"No, stay there," he urged her.

He had been gone for six months and, at the time of his departure, they had only just discovered that she was with child again. Now, she was swollen and sore, the delivery imminent. Her size always seemed to come as a shock to him, no matter that Mary, little Thomas and Anne had all been the same. He crossed the room to her and kissed her passionately. He was a Knight, she was the sister of an Earl. Theirs was that rare thing, a love match, but one that had displeased the mighty Howards. When they drew apart, Thomas guided her over to their small bed, where they could both sit comfortably, side by side.

"Luckily, I passed the Countess of Richmond on my way to the King and she told me to come back here and stay with you and the children," he explained. "So sad, what befell the Queen, though. You're not worried, are you?"

"Women always worry, Thomas," she answered. "You hear about it all the time. We all know someone who has died in childbirth. But I will not dwell on it, so don't worry." She smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek, trying to dispel the gloom in the atmosphere.

"Good, and I have some news that will aid the process and please you greatly," he said. Her eyes widened, she nodded for him to go on. "Now, I know it's every father's lot to think there's something special about his daughters. But with Anne, I know I'm right-"

"Thomas! Anne is three!" she laughed, but nonetheless moved that he was so attentive to the needs of their daughters, even if Anne was clearly his little golden girl. "She is gifted and precocious in different ways to Mary and Thomas, I grant you. But do not expect too much of her."

Her caution dampened his spirits, but he was waiting patiently for her to stop laughing so he could deliver the worst of what he's been up to in France. She looked at him, laughter long gone. "Oh Thomas, what have you done? You haven't enrolled her into a school of the Virgin Mary to make her into a living prophetess and latter day saint, have you?"

He didn't deny it and she grew even more worried.

"Close," he eventually replied, eyebrow raised. "But not quite. I've secured her a place in the household of the Archduchess of Austria. She will get the absolute best of everything. Mary will go to France. And this little one, can go play with the new Prince Whatever-His-Name-Is."

Elizabeth had to admit, this Boleyn upstart (as her raging brother had denounced him) had come up with the gold. For a long moment, she was simply speechless.

"Are you being serious?" she eventually asked.

He grinned impishly and gave a deliberately slow nod. Not only would the girls be receiving the best of Continental educations, if the new baby was a boy, then he would be the playmate of a Prince and Duke of York. Yes, her upstart husband really had delivered the goods and more beside. Thomas Howard himself could possibly even learn a thing or two from him!


	2. Displacement

**Author's Note:** a big thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. Thank you! The usual disclaimers apply. Reviews, as ever, most welcome. Finally, as happy as I am to be back with The Tudors, you can have chapter two a week early. Meet Francis!

* * *

**Chapter Two: Displacement (1516)**

The summons came in the early hours of the morning. Francis felt himself being shaken, mercilessly, from his sleep. He knew it was still night time because the room was dark, the fire had burned to embers in the hearth and slants of pale moonlight were splashed across his quilt. He moaned, pushed the intrusive hand away and rolled over on his side. In an effort to make his displeasure known, he pulled the quilt up over his head. However, the other person was not to be deterred. The rough awakening continued uninterrupted.

"Your Grace, wake up please," the man whose voice he did not recognise whispered urgently in his ear. "His Highness has summoned you."

Francis sighed. Reluctantly, he sat up in his bed and rubbed sleepily at his eyes with the heels of his palms. When his vision cleared, he saw the King's Groom, Sir Henry Norris, hovering over him with a guttering candle in his hand. He looked exhausted and dishevelled, even in the soft glow of the candle's flame. It must be true, however. Sir Henry wouldn't do this as a prank. Then, he remembered, his Sister-in-Law, Queen Catherine…

"Is the baby here?" he asked, grinning expectantly. "Is it a Prince?"

Sir Henry smirked. "You'll just have to come with me and see, Your Grace."

Without further ado, Sir Henry snatched up a fur lined cloak and thrust it in Francis's hands as he scrambled out of bed. Of course, he had his own Grooms for this job, but Sir Henry tip-toed around them, rather than waking them up. They slept on little pallet beds set up beside Francis's four poster. When the King summoned him, brother or no, there was no time to dress. His commands were obeyed immediately. As such, minutes later, Francis was scurrying through the Palace of Placentia, heading for the King's own Privy Chambers.

Francis had lost count of how many children Henry and Catherine had had together. However, the first died shortly after birth. The second died in the womb. The third, a Prince named Henry, died after just six weeks – plunging the King and Queen into a chasm of grief. He was followed by another stillborn girl. A stillborn son. Grief piled on grief. Surely now, God would grant their wish, and permit them a healthy, living son? If only to assuage the grief and pain of Queen Catherine – the woman who had been as good as a mother to him.

Ten minutes later, Francis was ushered into the dark Privy Chamber. He could see his brother, King Henry, still fully dressed, laughing and joking with his Grooms, Sir Nicholas Carew and Sir Francis Bryan in a softly lit ante-chamber. Cardinal Wolsey was there, too. If half of what they said about Wolsey was true, he probably had a mistress and whole brood of bastards hidden away, somewhere. Francis waited patiently for Henry to realise he was there, and shrugged his cloak tighter around his shoulders. In the presence of men dressed in the finest French fashions, he felt self-conscious in his silk nightshirt and over-sized gown that made him look even smaller than he already was.

Henry had inherited their Grandfather, Edward IV's, height and athletic build. Francis had inherited the smaller, slender frame of his father, King Henry VII. Queen Catherine said it was "spritely", Francis (and he suspected Henry agreed) said it was "skinny".

"Ah, Francis!" Henry's voice boomed across the empty chamber. The voices of his companions fell silent as the King extricated himself from them.

"Aww, bless!" Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk called over at the sight of him. "Someone show the child mercy and give him some clothes!"

"Shut up, Charles, there's a good man," Henry retorted, jovially.

Henry and Charles had been friends all their lives, despite Charles being older than him. His father, Sir William Brandon, had fought alongside their father at the Battle of Bosworth, gave his life as he took a blow that was meant for Henry Tudor. However, that friendship was put sorely to the test when Charles married their sister, Princess Mary, without permission just over a year ago. The fool could have been executed and it was only a kind word from Wolsey that had saved his idiotic neck. Henry imposed a huge fine on him and, even at that moment, when Henry told him to 'shut up', Francis noticed the flicker of genuine anger in his brother's eye. To render the shameful marriage respectable, Charles had been made Duke of Suffolk. He and Francis were equals, and it made him shudder.

Francis's musings were shut off when Henry slammed the door to the ante-chamber shut, drowning out the ribaldry next door. Then, he led Francis up on to the dais, where the King and Queen normally sat to receive petitioners. Henry took the great chair of estate, and Francis perched himself uncomfortably on the top step.

"The Queen has been delivered of a healthy baby girl," said Henry, grinning from ear to ear. "She's big, strong, healthy and beautiful. We've named her Mary."

Francis smiled, too. True, it was a girl and, therefore, not a proper heir. But she lived and that was all that mattered.

"I am sorry it was not a son, Your Grace," Francis said, craning his neck to see into Henry's face.

But, Henry waved a dismissive hand.

"Fran, I'll tell you what I told Catherine," he said, giving him a hearty slap on the back. "A girl this time, but a boy the next. We are both yet young." Henry lapsed into silence, his eyes sliding out of focus. "She is the pearl of my world," he added under his breath. "My Mary."

Francis was pleased, genuinely so. Until that moment, he had been the heir to the throne and had been for his whole, living memory. Their father, King Henry VII, died when he was just six. The only memory Francis had of him was being held up high so he could kiss the consumptive corpse of the old King as he lay in his casket before burial in the Lady Chapel at Westminster Abbey. He shivered at the memory of that emaciated, blood drained corpse with the cold, leathery skin. Fittingly, in keeping with the theme of death, his mother had died just twelve hours after giving birth to him. He had no memory of Elizabeth of York at all. His only memory of Henry VII made him want to vomit. They said Elizabeth's death (caused by him) drove Henry mad with grief. He once over-heard Lady Salisbury telling Queen Catherine all about it.

He hadn't minded being the heir to the throne. But, given the dynastic feuding, it was only on reflection that he realised he preferred the quiet life. It was generally a longer life.

"Your Grace, will I play a role in Princess Mary's Christening?" he asked, feeling hopeful.

"Of course you will," Henry replied. "It would be most unseemly if her Godfather was absent from proceedings, don't you agree?"

Francis felt the air knocked out of his lungs. "Me?" he gasped, wide eyed. "Are you jesting, Henry?"

Henry was grinning. "No, it is not a joke," he said, then turned serious. "However, you're too young to shoulder that alone, so Cardinal Wolsey will also be Godfather with you. Lady Salisbury is Godmother, along with our sister, Mary."

Francis flushed with pride. "Thank you, Your Grace. I cannot wait to meet my niece and Goddaughter."

Henry slid off his seat to sit by his side. "Now listen," he said. "Princess Mary is a new born girl. But, she still out-ranks you as Princess of Wales and heir presumptive. If Catherine and I fall victim to an out of control apple cart tomorrow, Mary will still be your Queen. Along with the Dukes of Buckingham, Norfolk and Suffolk, you will –when you come of age – be a part of her Regency Council. Do you understand what these changes mean?"

Francis nodded vigorously. "Yes, and I will gladly obey and serve Mary in whatever capacity she requires of me."

Henry embraced him warmly. The most warmly he had ever been embraced by Henry, who was twelve years older than him. Too old to be a contemporary, but not old enough to be a father figure to him. They had a strange, stand-offish relationship for the most part.

"Good boy," he said as they drew apart. "Now, to bed with you and prepare for your big day."

Francis bowed to his brother as his King, before racing back to his bedroom. Sleep was the last thing on his mind. Foremost in his mind, was kicking George Boleyn awake and telling him all about it. They hadn't had this much excitement since they thought they heard a banshee wailing in the Palace grounds, only for it to turn out be one of Sir Francis Bryan's mistresses in the throes of passion with yet another man.

* * *

The Coronation of King Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon had taken place a few months after Francis's sixth birthday. At the ceremony, he had been trusted with nothing more than clutching the hem of Henry's robe as he processed solemnly through the streets of London. He didn't get to go to the late Prince's christening at all. Meaning, Princess Mary's christening was the largest, grandest state affair he had yet attended.

Nervously, Francis stood decked out in his ermine-lined, velvet cloak, the Ducal coronet perched on his head, as he helped to hold his infant niece up to the font. He couldn't help but tremble and be eternally grateful for the far more experienced hands of Lady Margaret Pole assisting him. The warmed, consecrated water was dripped on Mary's skull by the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury himself. As soon as Mary, Princess of Wales, was proclaimed to the chapel stuffed to the rafters with every nobleman and noblewoman in the land, the ceremony was over.

Francis breathed a sigh of relief: he had not dropped the Princess and had not been sick with nerves all over her. To him, it was a job well done. His only faux pas of the day was positively fleeing the chapel, giddy with relief that it was over, only to have Cardinal Wolsey reach out and grab him by the scruff of the neck to drag him back in place.

"The Queen wishes to see you, after she has received the other guests," the Cardinal whispered low in his ear.

Francis blushed, but made to reply to Wolsey. Beside the King, Wolsey was one of the most powerful men in the land, one of the most loved and trusted by the King. Catherine, however, thought he was a snake in the grass and, her word alone, was enough to make Francis cautious of him.

As custom dictated, the Queen had not been present at the christening. Instead, she was being churched in nearby apartments that open out on to the chapel. The most important guests processed out of the chapel, through the Queen's apartments to pay their respects to her. Francis was required to hold back until last, which could only mean that she wanted to talk properly with him (something she had been unable to do since her lying-in began, two months previously).

When he was ushered in, he was surprised by what he saw. Catherine was sat up in bed, but with cloth of gold draped decorously around her shoulders. A large coronet on her head, displaying her rank as Queen. Sitting up in bed, but dripping in so many jewels, her whole body seemed to glitter in the late winter sun. Her auburn hair brushed to a high shine was loose about her shoulders and her smile was radiant.

"Francis," she said his name, trilling the 'R' with her lilting Spanish accent. "Come and sit with me for a while."

As he went to pull up a chair, she clicked her fingers and patted the space at her side on the bed. Grinning, he bounced up on to the mattress beside her.

"Gladly, Your Grace," he answered. "I trust you're recovering well?"

"Very well," she replied. "And I hear you performed well at the christening?"

Her praise made the colour rise in his face. "I don't know about that-"

"Come now," she cut over him. "Even the Duke of Norfolk praised you."

He didn't know what to say in response. Partly out of shock that the Duke of Norfolk had what it took to praise anyone at all, never mind him. But, he was spared the effort by Catherine signalling to one of her women, Maria De Salinas, to pass her a small, decorative wooden box.

"The real reason I've asked you here, Francis," she said, passing the box to him. "Is because I wanted you to have this."

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said, accepting the box gratefully. It was small, enamelled and intricately carved. For a long time, he looked at it, noting its highly polished surface and intricate, interlocking gold leaf decorations around the edges.

Catherine was watching him expectantly. "The gift isn't the box, Francis. Open it up!"

He laughed, realising he was drawing out her anticipation for longer than was polite and did as she bid. Inside, was a locket of medium size. Silver, but with a sapphire in the middle and small, glittering diamonds lined up at angles, so that it resembled a star. He unlatched the tiny clasp and opened up on a miniature portrait of a woman in an old fashioned gable hood. Her face was round, skin as white as alabaster and piercingly blue eyes. Her rosebud mouth, just like Henry's, was slack in a half-smile. In her long, tapering fingers, she held a small, white rose – emblem of the house of York. Opposite the portrait was a curl of strawberry blonde hair.

He looked up at Catherine, who beamed back at him. "Is this…" his words trailed off as he pointed to the locket in his open palm.

Catherine nodded. "Your mother, Elizabeth of York" she confirmed.

Francis slipped the locket safely back in its box and embraced the Queen warmly, burying his face in her hair so she would not see his tears. However, he had forgotten about the coronet on his head, and knocked it the ground by mistake. Luckily, Lady Maria picked it up for him and placed it on the bed. Catherine returned his embrace, rubbing his back.

"Thank you," he repeated. "I will treasure it always."

After another minute, they drew apart and Francis sat up properly again. Lifting the locket out of its box again, he ran the pad of his thumb over the jewelled case. It really was the most precious gift anyone had given to him; worth more than all the Dukedoms and crowns in the land. Then, he remembered something: Catherine came to England to marry his oldest brother, Prince Arthur but found herself a widow after just six months. She had known Elizabeth of York for almost two years.

"Is it a good likeness?" he asked, holding the closed locket aloft.

"Yes, from what I recall," she agreed. "Gingery hair – just like Henry's, but there's a lock of it in there. Blue eyes, just like yours. Pale skin. Sweet, red lips but a small mouth. But, it was her character that made her shine. She was loved. She even wrote to me, when I was a girl in Spain and told me what to expect from life in England. Rain, rain and more rain."

Francis laughed, never a truer word spoken. "Sometimes we get sleet and snow, too."

Spain, to him, was another world. He couldn't even begin to imagine Catherine's childhood, spent on the battlefields as her parents, Isabella and Ferdinand, fought to unite the nation and rid the land of Moores and their infidel ways. Catherine herself had been styled as Princess of Wales from the age of two, in anticipation of her marriage to Arthur. After he died, however, Catherine found herself destitute at the English Court, until Henry vehemently fought to make her his Queen upon their father's death.

"Well, I'm glad you came to England and stayed here, despite my father's treatment of you," he said.

Catherine rolled her eyes. "All of that was as much my Father's fault too, you know," she gently admonished. "I remember once, your father found me weeping horribly in his library. He comforted me and took me to his chamber of presence, once I had composed myself. Once there, he sent his Groom to fetch the Goldsmith's samples that had been delivered that day. When the Groom returned, your father handed me the bag of jewels and told me to pick the one I liked best for myself. Then, to pick one for each of my ladies."

Maria de Salinas, the only one of Catherine's Spanish ladies not to flee when the going got rough, smiled at the memory. "I remember that. Her Grace picked for me a large opal. I still have it."

"I had a large ruby, now set in a necklace for me," Catherine added. "I bet your brother never once told you that about your father. He wasn't so bad, once you got used to him. But, you were too young."

It was true that Henry resented their father as much as anyone. He had his wings clipped endlessly; locked away and cosseted from the world. And, brother Henry was a force to be reckoned with. However, he still couldn't imagine Henry VII being so generous, not from what he had heard about him.

"Well, he had his moments, then," Francis conceded. "But, he blamed me for killing mother. He told Henry and my sisters, Margaret and Mary, that I killed her and that's why they're always mad at me and never include me in their visits. They think the grief drove my father mad, so I suppose they blame me for that, too."

Catherine's expression darkened into a deep frown. "Child, who is telling you all this?"

He blushed. "I once listened to Lady Salisbury talking to you about it," he sheepishly confessed.

"Margaret Pole?" Catherine said, surprised. "She was telling me what happened in the birthing chamber. That the Physician had used a new contraption called a Forcep to deliver you. A giant pair of pincers to drag you out before you were ready. They are what caused your mother's death. The forced birth made her bleed dry. Not you, Francis."

He blushed deeper, almost matching his ceremonial robes. "Oh," he said. "Well, no one ever mentioned anything about that to me!"

"Because they didn't want to upset you!" she retorted, heaving an exasperated sigh. "Now listen, I heard about you sneaking out of Richmond Palace with George Boleyn, a few months ago. What were you thinking, trying to break in to the Tower? Normal people want to break out of it, not into it!"

She had delivered the treats, now she was delivering the pain. "Yes," he confessed, guiltily. "I'm sorry, really I am." His Governess had seen to it that he and George truly were.

"If I hear of you doing it again, I take a birch rod to you myself and you really will wish you had never been born," she warned, but grinning all the same. It always took the sting out of her words. "You are dismissed. Be good, or the least bad you can be. And tell me, you'll always be my friend, won't you?"

"Of course I will!" he retorted, shocked that she even had to ask. For just a second, there was a glimmer of worry in her eyes. There for just a fraction of a second before vanishing. He wanted to say more, but instead he kissed her on both cheeks before leaving. He was hot and uncomfortable in his ermine and velvet and wanted to get changed. He wanted to find somewhere safe and secret to hide his precious new locket.


	3. Lady Anne

**Author's Note:** as always, a big thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and reviews would be appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Lady Anne (1520)**

Seagulls wheeled and swooped high over-head, through the clouds that blotted out the sun and over the strong winds that rolled the ship across the restive sea. Francis found it all thrilling. The shouts of the crew, pulling at the sails to harness the power of the wind; the waves crashing over the prow of the Mary Rose, washing the decks with spray. The smell was different, too. Salt and seaweed heavy in the air. He hadn't known what to expect; he had never even seen the sea, before. He left London once, but that was to ride out to his Ducal lands in York. Now, he and the Court were on their way to France.

Princess Mary, now four years of age, was off to meet her future husband, the Dauphin. Francis watched her as she tottered about the deck of the ship, seemingly completely immune to effects of sea-sickness. She easily evaded the clutches of a rather green looking Lady Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury. Having already discovered his sea legs, Francis rushed over to lend a hand and catch the over-excited Princess before she accidentally leapt overboard in sheer excitement.

"Mary!" he called out, sweeping the girl off her feet and bouncing her on his hip. "Your Papa will be most displeased if his Pearl goes to re-join the Oysters at the bottom of the sea."

"I want to be a mermaid when I grow up!" she squealed, temporarily deafening him in his right ear.

He frowned. Mermaid, or Queen of France? He inwardly pondered. Both involved a lot of fishiness. "Maybe in the next life."

Lady Salisbury finally caught up with them, clinging to the handrail for support as the ship continued its swaying. She wasn't getting any younger and the voyage, along with the exuberant Princess, were clearly taking their toll. She clasped the crucifix at her throat, sending up a silent prayer that Mary had been safely apprehended.

"Thank you, Your Grace. I apologise if the Princess disturbed you," she said, taking over the care of Mary.

"She does not disturb me. It's my first sea-voyage too; we're kindred spirits here," he smiled, reassuring the Countess that all was well and Mary should not be scolded. "How is the Queen? I have not seen her since we set sail."

The Countess shook her head. "She has agreed to greet Queen Claude, but she is refusing to openly support this union. The de Valois are the enemy of her people and if there's one thing the Queen has more of than pride, it is stubbornness."

With her free hand, Lady Salisbury produced a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it lightly to her lips. Taking a deep breath, it was clear she had scented it with strong salts. He bowed to her, letting her know it was perfectly alright for her to retreat without giving offence. As she scurried away, he waved goodbye to Mary who was peeking over her shoulder.

"Jesu, someone looks rough!"

Francis gasped in shock, whirled around and found that George Boleyn had seemingly materialised from thin air at his side. He grinned. "Didn't mean to scare you."

Francis cast a glance around the deck of the ship. Only the crew were out and King Henry was all the way down the opposite end, steering the ship itself and having the time of his life. Nevertheless, Francis ushered George as far as they could away from him.

"Have you seen the Duke of Buckingham since we set sail?" he asked, the two of them huddling close as possible.

"No, but even if I had, I sincerely doubt that he would deign to notice me, anyway," answered George, struggling to keep his hair out of his face as the wind whipped at it. "Why?"

Francis looked over his shoulder again, making doubly sure no one could overhear.

"He thinks he's going to be King soon," he said, keeping his voice as low as he could. "A few of his retainers are talking. The only reason Henry's brought him along is to test him."

George frowned. "Who's telling you all this?"

"Henry Courtenay, the Marquis of Exeter. His mother is my Aunt Catherine; my mother's sister. Buckingham's got an old claim himself, so we think he's trying to rally all the old Plantagenet stock to back him up. I wonder if he's approached Lady Salisbury? She's another one of the old blood Royal."

"Francis, you'll get into trouble with gossip like that," George admonished, lightly but with a definite air of closing the subject.

The colour stole into Francis' face, suddenly sheepish at being found loose-tongued. It was only recently, since turning seventeen, that he had begun to play an active role in life at Court. The sudden rush of opportunity, scandal and intricate webs of intrigues had gone to his head. But the whole experience had been a heady mix of endless socialising, meet and greets and finally being taken seriously for the first time in his life. In an effort to redeem himself, he steered the conversation back on to familiar territory.

"Will your sisters be waiting for you in France?" he asked.

George was smiling again. "Mary definitely will," he answered. "Anne probably will, but she might be too busy with Queen Claude. Anne's French is so natural now that she sometimes acts as an interpreter for the Queen."

Over the years, Francis had watched George pen letter after letter to his sisters, Anne and Mary Boleyn. Through him, he had learned the intricate details of their continental education, their progress and achievements and all their little domestic dramas. He found himself curious about them both.

"Can you remember what they look like?" he asked. "You're lucky to have sisters your own age. Mine are all married and old."

George shrugged. "I remember them as children, when we all lived at Hever," he replied. "But Anne is nineteen now and Mary is twenty-two. Father went ballistic because he found out Mary was fucking the King of France."

Francis snorted with laughter. "He should have got what he could out of François! That's what Bessie Blount's lot did while she was shagging my brother and whelping his bastard son. Still, she's married to some petty nobleman with a shaky grip on his own sanity, now. Poor Bessie. Still, the bastard Fitzroy might do well for himself. Henry has acknowledged him."

George looked dubious. "Not much, though, is it?" he replied. "I mean, Henry and Catherine are still married. Bessie herself is damaged goods rendered semi-respectable through a hastily arranged marriage. It's her family, rather than her, who have come up smelling of roses. Our Mary will be the same now, I can feel it. In fact, no, it's worse. Francois won't even bother to arrange a half-decent marriage for her, he'll just ship her back to England so we have to deal with her."

George looked as glum as the grey skies overhead.

"It will not come to that," Francis tried to assure him. "If Francois does cast her off and throw her out, I will speak with Catherine. She will either grant Mary a place in her own retinue, or she will know someone else who needs Ladies for their households."

George raised a wan smile. "You would do that?"

Francis nodded. "Of course I would, you're my friend. By extension, so are Mary and Anne."

Finally placated, George turned to the sea. Francis assumed he was watching the gulls swoop to the violent seas, but he soon felt a tug at this sleeve. "Over there, look," he called over the howl of the wind. "Calais!"

* * *

"Anne!"

Mary sounded frantic, but then she had been sounding frantic for the last week. Anne paid no heed and simply picked up her book again. Mary's shout was followed by a muffled thump from the room next door, a wardrobe door slamming shut and hurried footsteps. An angry inquiry into where a certain pair of shoes had got to, shouts for silk and ribbons for her hair. Anne rolled her eyes and smiled. Soon, Mary would become distracted enough to forget her.

"Anne!"

Or, maybe not. Anne sighed and put down her book, open at the relevant page, on the side table next to her chair. However, before she could move, her chamber door was flung open. Mary stood on the threshold, flushed in the face and wide, glittering eyes boring into her. Whatever the panic was, she had dishevelled her hair and the sleeve of her gown was partially detached from its bodice.

"Are you deaf?" Mary enquired of her younger sister. "I've been calling and calling!"

Anne remained calm, hoping that some of her demeanour would rub off on Mary.

"Loud enough to wake the dead, Mary," she jested good naturedly, unable to stop herself smiling. "Whatever is it?"

"Oh, Anne!" Mary gasped, breathlessly. "They're here. We heard the drums approaching more than five minutes past. They're finally here."

A flicker of excitement broke the surface of Anne's glacial calm. For a minute, she could not do anything but try to stay apace of her own racing thoughts. Where did she leave her good cloak? Will her headdress sit straight in these strong winds? All sorts of small details, normally glossed over, race through her head. A deep breath later, however, she began putting the finishing touches to her outfit in front of the looking glass.

"Really, Mary, there's no need to panic!" she laughed, making sure her pearls were hanging straight and her gown was perfectly brushed down. "They've all been at sea in storms, they'll be looking rough themselves."

Finally, Mary stepped into the chamber, looking at Anne agape, as though she were running mad. "Anne, that's all the more reason to look our best," she lectured. "We haven't been at sea and… and…"

"And nothing," Anne cut over her, turning from the mirror and throwing her cloak over her shoulders. "Come on, let's go and meet them!"

Their temporary home during these peace negotiations was a comfortable manor house in the town of Calais, itself. It was owned by the Mayor, who was currently residing the new, golden city built just for the Conference. They had arrived last week, just as the last few marquees were being erected. When they left the house and hurried down the cobbled streets, they turned the corner and saw the full effect for the first time. Even the smallest of tents was made from cloth of gold, and the replica palace was breath-taking. As they entered the "city" they pointed things out to each other, gasping at every new sight. It was hard to believe that, just two weeks before, this place had been flat, dull fields.

Once they found the best spot they could along the main route through the city of tents, they craned their necks down the road for their first sighting of the English Court. To cap it all, the skies had cleared and the weather was finally beginning to behave like June.

"Anne, look, free wine from the fountain over there!" Mary pointed out excitedly.

"Oh, get me some, too," Anne asked, impressed by the sight of the conduits. Already, however, drunken soldiers were congregating around each one. "On second thoughts, we should go together."

They linked arms as they went, chattering excitedly as all worries about hair and dresses receded.

"Mary, allow me to present you with a purely hypothetical situation," said Anne, ignoring the jeers of a group of bawdy soldiers. "Let's just say you're going about your daily business – say it's tomorrow morning – you're on your way to the market, as an example. On your way back, with your yard of velvet or your cheese, for instance, and you just so happen to bump into King Henry himself. What would you do? Because it could happen!"

Mary grinned impishly. "I would offer him a bite of my cheese!"

Anne gasped, gave her a gentle shove. "Seriously! What would you do? I don't know what I would do."

They reached the conduit dispensing red wine and produced their flasks from their belts, ready to fill them up when they got their turn.

"What can you do, Anne?" Mary asked, smiling indulgently at Anne's naivety. "Just curtsey and let him pass, as you would do for King François. Once he passes, rise and be on your way."

They reached the conduit after a man in too-tight breeches finally filled all twenty of the flasks he seemed to be carrying. Enough wine for an entire army, that Anne suspected was for his use alone.

"But what if he tried to talk to you?" she asked Mary, as she filled both their flasks.

"Honestly, Anne, he will be with a company of at least thirty men everywhere he goes. You need not worry."

Anne did not reply. She took her flask and linked Mary's arm again as they made their way back to the route. It had been nice to imagine bumping into a passing King, especially the King of England. But Mary was correct, they never went anywhere without an entire troupe of hangers-on. Noticing how loud the drum beats were, they both hurried as the outriders finally cantered past. All thoughts of the King were ridden over by thoughts of their brother, George. Would she recognise him after so many years? Probably not. She and Mary had not even made it home for their other brother, Thomas's, funeral.

Nevertheless, both she and Mary lined up along the route, gazing intently at every face that passed. In the distance, standing brightly against the clear blue skies, Anne saw a sight that made the breath hitch in her throat. The three lions rampant, the royal standard of the English Monarchy, fluttered in the strong breeze. From the moment it appeared, neither Anne nor Mary could tear their gaze from it.

"Sweet Jesu, Mary, it's them!" Anne pointed out, quite needlessly. "It's the King and Queen!"

The roar from the crowds was deafening. Cries of "Vivat Rex" and "For St George and Queen Catherine" filled the air. Flowers were tossed from unseen people in the crowds, forming a rapidly spreading carpet over which the horses trampled before anyone could gather them up. Then, at the head of the procession, on top of a white palfrey was a woman with auburn hair and a gold crown. The Queen. Beside her, on a black destrier war horse, was an athletically built man with red and a red beard. The crown on his head was even greater than that of the Queen. King Henry waved to the crowds, smiling round at them all. Occasionally, he would meet someone's eye and wave at them directly. He selected people at random, and engaged with them personally, regardless of their rank. A gesture he pulled off effortlessly and won hearts and minds with ease. Even on horseback and from a distance, Henry oozed charm.

Despite herself, Anne found herself yearning to be one of those Henry glanced at. As he passed, she flushed deeply, watching every move this handsome monarch made. For a second, she thought she could see him glancing at Mary, but within a nanosecond, he had passed them by.

"I wonder where George is?"

The sound of Mary's voice jolted Anne out of King Henry's spell. Wordlessly, she found herself searching the sea of faces in the King's retinue. After him, came various Dukes, recognisable by their standards. Buckingham passed first. Then Norfolk, her uncle, but she didn't bother waving at him, seeing as he was so disdainful of their mercantile stock. Then, the Duke of York, the youngest coming last, despite being the King's younger brother and possible heir (should mishap befall the young Princess Mary).

"There's Duke Francis, Mary," Anne pointed him out. She couldn't see him very well. He was dark haired, where his brother was golden haired. Slight looking, and very young. Fetchingly, he seemed too shy to engage the crowds as his brother had done. "George must be with him somewhere."

"Maybe that's him, riding at the Duke's side?" Mary pondered aloud. "They say George and Francis are inseparable."

Wherever George was in the Duke of York's crowd, he had passed them by before long. Mary, however, was not to be deterred. She grabbed Anne by the wrist and ran after the procession. They dodged swarms of people, leapt over the prostrate forms of the inebriated and clung to each other for dear life, all the way to the main pavilion, where the procession dismounted. Breathless and almost breaking a sweat, they were stopped at the gates of the pavilion by Yeomen of the Guard. Anne, struggling to get her breath back, almost fainted with disappointment.

"Kind Sir," she panted at the stony faced Yeoman. "We are Anne and Mary Boleyn. Our brother, George, is in the household of the Duke of York. Please, let us pass so that we may find him."

"I cannot let you in," he protested. However, he saw the look of desperation in their eyes, and relented. "Wait here, I'll see if we can find him."

"Thank you!" they both chorused in return.

He smiled at them both as he turned to consult some of his colleagues, who then dashed off towards the Royal party. As they waited, they moved to the side to let other visitors in and drank their hitherto forgotten wine. The strong wine restored them greatly, after their long dash through Calais. However, Anne noted with dismay that the hems of their skirts had become spattered with mud and their headdresses were, indeed, skewiff. She was straightening herself out as best she could when a man's voice addressed her.

"Sisters?"

They both whirled round, to see a young man of seventeen addressing them. He was dark, like Anne, tall and slim. Dressed impeccably in the French fashion and grinning at them both, with a definite twinkle in his dark eyes. He wore a single ostrich plume in his velvet cap.

"George!"

All three surged towards each other, a three way bear hug as the siblings were finally reunited. For a long moment, they remained like that. A brief, unspoken, moment of regret only that Thomas could not be there to share the moment. Eventually, however, they drew apart as they looked each other up and down, hungrily.

"Come with me, both of you, and meet my friend, Francis," George said, already leading them through the gates and towards the pavilion where the Duke of York was staying. "He's been dying to meet you both."

"Really?" asked Mary, trotting to keep up with them. "The brother of the King, no less!"

Anne remembered the slight youth on the horse, the one too shy to wave at everybody. Maybe he was more impressive close up? She didn't have to wait long for her answer, either, as they were soon led into a surprisingly comfortable pavilion tent. The Duke was standing by a fire, with a small group of retainers and friends. He turned around as he heard them enter, and smiled brightly at them. The first thing Anne noticed was his piercingly blue eyes, under a raven dark fringe. His chin was lined with stubble, a tell-tale sign of his long journey. He was too slim for his height, like many males who were barely out of adolescence. And such pale skin, contrasting with his dark hair. People often spoke of his resemblance to his father as though it were some king of handicap. As she saw him up close, Anne couldn't help but wonder why.

"These must be your sisters, George," Francis said, walking over to meet them properly.

Anne noticed the way he walked. More confidently than he at first appeared. She noticed the smile again, the high, chiselled cheekbones. She whimpered in response, surprised and shocked by her own sudden loss of the use of clear language.

"This is my oldest sister, Mary," said George.

Anne turned, expecting Mary to be nothing more than a warm puddle on the floor. But to her surprise, Mary was positively elegant and confident.

"A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace," she beamed.

"And you, Lady Mary," the Duke responded.

Francis took her hand and kissed it. Surely, at that moment, Mary would faint. But she did not.

"And this is Anne, the younger of my sisters," said George.

Anne jerked round from Mary and looked up at the Duke in surprise. "Your Grace, it's an honour to meet you," she said, suddenly finding her voice again and remembering to curtsey.

As with Mary, he took Anne's hand in his own and brushed a gentle kiss against her knuckles. Even this small bodily contact sent a frisson of excitement coursing through her.

"A pleasure to meet you at last, Lady Anne," he replied, a model of courtesy. "I trust all three of you will join me for some dinner?"

George accepted on their behalf and the Duke's servants led the way to the table. Already, venison and French beef lay in wait for them there. Grateful for Mary, with her more sociable ways, for leading the conversation, Anne let herself fade into the background. If anything, she needed to compose herself, lest she should make a fool of herself by appearing feeble minded. She rationalised her feelings, wrote them off as a phase, and blamed the excitement of being with George. But, there was no denying how handsome she found the Duke. But, she rationalised, he must have women falling at his feet wherever he goes. There's no reason why a man like that would notice a girl like her, so she checked her emotions and reined herself in. Nothing would come of it.


	4. A Dart of Love

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot to me. So thank you! The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. If you have a minute, a review would be appreciated.

* * *

**Chapter Four: A Dart of Love**

Night fell over the golden city, but the celebrations were still in full swing. Somehow, Cardinal Wolsey had achieved the impossible: he had managed to get the King of England and the King of France in the same room for an entire day, without a declaration of war being the end result. Francis had watched Henry throughout. He had seen the looks of barely concealed loathing from both Kings. Only for sweet platitudes to slip from their lips whenever they opened their mouths. The talk was of perpetual peace, friendship and love between brother Kings. They exchanged gifts of the most exquisite jewels to each other, looking rather pained as they each handed them over: all that money being wasted on a Frenchman; on an Englishman.

"I wager this perpetual peace will last six months," Charles Brandon had whispered in the Duke of Norfolk's ear.

Norfolk snorted in derision. "As long as that? I give it a month."

It wasn't often that Francis agreed with Norfolk, but that had been one such occasion. Still, Wolsey looked pleased. Instead of the war that both Kings had been thirsting for not one year ago, that would cost the lives of untold numbers of men, he had got them to throw an enormous, opulent party instead. On that level, Francis didn't care that it was an extravagant waste of money. It was an extravagant waste of money that had busted the treasury in order to save lives. You couldn't actually put a price on that, he thought to himself. He watched the Cardinal shift his impressive bulk easily between Henry and Francis with ease, gracefully slipping between English, French and Latin without skipping a beat, to smooth over the pace to 'perpetual' peace. In doing so, he had probably also gilded his path to the Papal Tiara.

However, now that the feast had begun to celebrate the first meeting, political talk made way for the pleasantries. Finally, Francis could lower his guard a little, even if it he was not yet free to do what he had been itching to do all day: find Lady Anne. He had dined with her the previous night, with her sister and brother present, so they hadn't been able to talk privately. Not that he would ever expose Anne to impropriety by sneaking off with her, but she had intrigued him from the moment he first saw her. He could even see her now, sitting with her father, the French Ambassador Thomas Boleyn, and her sister, Mary. Every so often, Anne would turn his way, their gaze would lock in on each other's for a second, before both glanced coyly downwards.

Beside him, his French counterpart was wittering away at him. His words formed a buzz that washed over his head. But, he raised a hand to stop him mid-flow.

"Monsieur, I need your advice," Francis interjected over him. "What wine would you recommend for a lady, an amour, say?"

His fellow Duke smiled knowingly, a twinkle in his green eyes. "I see you are struck by a fine French maiden, no?" He said, with an undertone of 'they're out of your league, English boy' unpinning his meaning. Francis, however, decided to ignore that.

"Something like that," he replied, cordially and forcing a smile in return.

"Beaujolais," he replied. "Sweet, fragrant and full-bodied. Like the first flush love itself."

Inwardly, Francis cringed. However, in no position to contradict his undoubtedly highly experienced new friend, he went ahead and caught the attention of one of the Servers and instructed him to send a bottle down to Mademoiselle Anne Boleyn. He watched the man wend his way between the tables, first to the wine table and then towards the lower table, where the Boleyn girls still dined with their father.

However, before he could see how Anne received his gesture, a hand clapped down on his shoulder. He whipped round in surprise, to see Henry towering over him, dripping in jewellery and twice his usual size with bluster and forced bonhomie the occasion had imbued him with.

"Fran, come and be presented to the French cun-" he broke off, gave his head a shake. "I mean King. Come and be presented to the French King."

Francis sighed deeply. "Henry, be good. It's only for a few more days."

Henry's expression fell. "I'm trying, brother. That's why I need your gentle ways and quiet demeanour. To make up for the fact that I want to punch that supercilious smirk off his face."

"If it makes you feel any better, he probably wants to do the same to you," replied Francis, silently thinking to himself: 'and he is far from alone'.

"Oh, let him try!" Henry retorted, gripping Francis's upper arm and dragging him away from the meal of roast beef he had not had a chance to start.

Moments later, and he's a few feet to the left of his place at the head table, bowing low to the French King, Franҫois. An act of deference that seemed to cause King Henry some physical discomfort as he pulled Francis up by the shoulder. A few places along, Queen Catherine gripped the stem of a wine glass as if she were throttling it, glaring out at the crowds with a rictus smile cemented on her face. At her side, at least Princess Mary was enjoying herself, being too young to have yet inherited the prejudices of her parents. At Catherine's other side, Queen Claude of France, took dainty forkfuls of beef, seemingly blissfully unaware of the simmering, cordial hatred surrounding her.

"Francis of York, no?" King Franҫois stated exuberantly as he opened his arms to Francis. "Our names are very confusing, but I will embrace you anyway!"

Francis found himself being pulled into a bear hug, with a wet, whiskery kiss planted on each cheek. He then found himself being seated next to the French King while Henry disappeared for a much needed breather. Francis watched him leave in sinking spirits, as though he were being abandoned to his fate on a desert island in the middle of a raging sea.

"Your brother has told me all about you, Francis," said Franҫois, handing him a glass of wine. "It must be hard for you, being the younger brother of a man like Henry. But, you find your own way to shine, in good time."

Francis looked at him, trying to tell if he was being teased or appeased. "Henry has always been good to me," he replied, flatly.

Franҫois paused midway between cutting some of his meat, and set down his knife. "I don't mean to sound boorish," he said, as though picking up on his suspicions. "I speak in earnest. It is hard for those in the shadow of great men. Although I may, or may not, hate your brother, I cannot deny he is a great man – he is a King. You are young, trying to forge your own path even though everyone is telling you is already forged for you, from before you were even born."

That was true. He was born as Duke of York and as Duke of York he will remain. Especially now that Catherine was no longer bearing children, and Mary would now be hers and Henry's only child.

"But what can I do, Your Grace?" he asked. "I am Henry's, to do with as he pleases. If he wants me to marry, he will tell me where. If he wants me to do this, that and the other, I have no choice but to obey. So really, I will follow in the path that he forges for me."

Franҫois smiled gently. "No, Your Grace," he replied, at length. "If you're brave, if you have the will power, you can do as you wish, within means. You cannot be Pope or ruler of the world. But, small things – and small things soon add up – can be yours for the taking, if you know how to get it."

Francis shrugged. "I suppose I could be a good Duke of York to my tenants and people in the North," he replied. Still being under the sway of a regency council in the North, he had invested very little thought into it. But now Franҫois had said it, he could see the truth in it. Those people would depend on him alone, in time.

"When your brother was the same age you are now, he was the newly crowned King of England by right," Franҫois added. "Take my advice: assert yourself now, before it's too late. Oh! Enough of this talk. My Server tells me you had wine sent to La Belle, Anne Boleyn. You are fond of the Lady?"

Francis blushed deeply. "Her brother is my oldest friend, that is all."

Franҫois drained his wineglass, and pointed to Mary Boleyn with his knife. "I told your brother earlier," he said, smirking. "I call her my English mare, because I ride her so often!"

He laughed uproariously. Shocked, Francis instinctively glanced towards Claude, who didn't seem to notice her husband bragging about sleeping with another woman. For all of Henry's faults, never once did he flaunt a mistress under Catherine's nose. He loved and respected her far too much for that. Even Henry's illegitimate son, Henry Fitzroy, was being raised far from Court, where Catherine's path and his will never cross.

However, Francis looked down at his feet, hiding his own embarrassment. "What is Anne like?" he asked, fearing the answer, given how infamous Mary seemed to be.

"Frigid as a Nun, from what I hear," Francis replied. Then, his expression softened. "She is a nice girl, from what I hear. Her looks are … unusual … for the French Court. She does not attract attention, but I also think she does not seek it."

Francis looked back down the tables, to where Anne sat. He could see her much better now that Mary had left the table. She did look unusual. Exotic, was how Francis thought of her. With her pale olive complexion; large, almost black eyes that glittered as they caught the light. She was crowned in the glory of waist length, raven dark hair that shone as she turned her head. He had never seen a girl like her, before. She stood out so starkly from the pasty-faced, washed out English roses that littered the Court of King Henry. It was her eyes that caught him, however. Large, dark and framed with lashes so long they touched her cheekbone whenever she blinked. He had been entranced by that small, unthinking action she performed, the night before.

At that moment, Anne turned again and looked at him. There was no use in pretending that he hadn't been gawping, so he smiled at her feeling rather self-conscious, all the same. She leaned backwards, glanced around before turning back to him and mouthed the word: "later". With a small, discreet nod of the head, he confirmed.

* * *

Anne picked at her food, wary of over-eating before the dancing began. Her father looked concerned at her lack of appetite, but she was quick to assure him that she was quite well. Just impatient for the dancing to begin, without elaborating on the partner she already had in mind. She had been watching him all evening, with stolen glances across the room. Every time she found Francis looking back, her heart skipped a beat, a small dart of longing piercing the delicate tissue with each second of eye contact. As Francis spoke with the French King, she had an even clearer view of him; she could make out the cornflower blue of his eyes. His features even more charming, now that he had had a chance to shave and sleep.

The moment the tables were cleared and the musicians struck up the first chords could not have come soon enough. However, she had to hope that Francis got her unspoken communication, and acted upon it by picking her as his dancing partner. When the moment came, nerves gnawed at her and a swarm of butterflies took flight in her stomach. She wanted Mary near her for emotional support, but the woman had vanished, seemingly into thin air. Then, even her father melted away into a knot of English noblemen whose rank far exceeded his own. She was as good as alone, but for her chaperone.

Still, she took her place at the edge of the newly cleared Great Hall, alongside all the other ladies waiting to be invited to dance. With growing anticipation and excitement, she watched as Francis glanced over the sea of female faces, before coming to rest on her own. A smile slowly lit up his face as he advanced through the swelling crowds, never taking his eyes off her. He stopped, directly in front of her and bowed elegantly.

"My Lady, may I have the pleasure of this dance?" he asked, a twinkle in his eye seeing as he already knew the answer.

Anne blushed, an excited giggle escaping her as she eagerly nodded. "You may, my lord."

The dance was a ritual whereby men and women were actually allowed to touch each other, without violating any rules of propriety. It was a golden opportunity that neither Anne nor Francis wanted to waste a second of. A frisson of excitement coursed through her as he took her hand in his and kissed it, before leading her out on to the dance floor in time for the musicians to strike up a slow Volta. Francis placed one hand delicately on her hip, with the other, he took her hand and held it aloft in the right position.

They held each other close before the dance began. So close that Anne could feel the warmth of his breath against the exposed skin of her neck as he whispered in her ear.

"I've been thinking of you all day."

Her dark eyes locked into his blue, she felt herself weakening in the knees as they held each other's gaze. "And I you, Your Grace," she admitted.

Before they could say anything else, the dance began as the music built steadily in pace. They parted to arm's length before Anne stepped back and he swept her up, holding her aloft before turning in time to the music and setting her back down again.

"Can I see you private?" he asked, before stepping away to give her space to pirouette.

"Name the place and time," she said as they closed in on each other again.

They swept round in a circle, perfectly keeping step with the other dancers as they went. When it came time to perform the lift, he held her up high in his arms again.

"In the pavilion outside, as soon as you can," he replied.

After the next step, they had to change partners. But Anne saw Francis slip away, outside into the warm night air. To keep it decorous, she danced with two more partners before judging the time right to slip away without attracting attention. Luckily for her, everyone had gathered around to watch Princess Mary dance with the Dauphin, meaning she could slip away stark naked and no one would look twice, if she so desired.

Outside, the warm breeze plucked at her skin, blowing away the smoke and smells of the enclosed halls. It was refreshing, dispelling the fug of being cooped up indoors. Sending up a prayer of thanks for the quietness outside, Anne followed the path round the Hall to where it opened on a rose garden that barely anyone bothered to visit. Inside, was the pavilion which Francis had spoken of. He was there, pacing and waiting, for her. Attracted by the sound of gravel crunching under her foot, he stopped suddenly and look directly at her.

"Anne!" he breathed, rushing up to meet her half way. "Thank god you came; I thought you might have changed your mind."

"Never!" she replied, following him back to the pavilion, where they sat side by side on a bench.

Above them, the stars littered the sky, outshone by the fullness of the moon that cast the grounds in a silver pallor. They could pick out the flowers, the water and the ornate fountain that gurgled in the distant darkness. Only the muffled sounds of the music and dancing intruded upon their solitude. On the bench, Anne shifted round in her seat to look at him.

"Why were you thinking of me?" she asked.

She hoped beyond hope that he was thinking of her for the same reasons she was thinking of him. Never having had these feelings before, she couldn't even put a name to it. She had found several men attractive before, but there had always been something to dissuade her. Something that had put her off, even if she could not articulate it. Maybe she was yet to discover that same, unspoken something in Francis. But, until that time, she felt herself drawn to him. When in the same room, the force was magnetic.

"I fear to even answer that question," he replied, lowering his head. "For fear I might give offense or drive you away."

Spurred on by a surge of recklessness, she reached under her sleeve and tugged a silk ribbon free.

"I wanted to thank you for the wine you sent to my table," she said, pressing her favours into his hand.

Francis accepted the ribbon, and kissed it gently. She saw the silver threaded falcon glint in the moonlight.

"I wanted to see you again…" he began, but his words trailed off.

"Yes?" Anne prompted him, leaning in closer.

"Because I think you're beautiful, Anne Boleyn," he whispered, dropping his head again, as though embarrassed.

No one had ever called her beautiful, before. Hearing it come from him, it made her heart burst with happiness. She hardly knew what she was doing, but she brought her hands to his face, cupping him and feeling the cheekbones prominent under her touch. He did likewise, running his hands through the glory of her hair. Their gaze lingered on each other as they drew in close and kissed. A small, chaste kiss on the lips at first. They pulled away, but each could tell the other yearned for more. This time, they kissed each other deeply as they had never kissed anyone before. As they kissed, they caressed each other's faces, ran their hands through their hair. It went on, until their solitude was shattered by the sound of distant, raucous laughter.

They pulled apart, breathless and now frantic at the fear of discovery. Francis cursed under his breath as running footsteps drew ever closer. Anne hurriedly drew her cloak closer over her, where it had become dishevelled through Francis's fumblings.

"What if they're coming here?" Anne urgently whispered, eyes wide.

Francis shook his head. "Don't worry," he replied, trying to sound reassuring. "I'll go out there and make it look as if I'm having a late night stroll. If you're discovered, it will look like you just happened to already be here when I arrived."

Anne nodded her approval and Francis darted away, into the night. His footsteps crunched in the gravel path before stopping abruptly. Slowly, she poked her head out of the pavilion to see what was happening. Francis had hunkered down behind a bush, and was peering out from behind it. He turned to face her again, pressed a finger to his lips and beckoned her over with a wave. When she tip-toed over to him, she knelt beside him and listened to the sound of the woman's laughter.

"Oh, Henry!" she called out, followed by a girlish yelp as a man caught her and kissed her.

"Oh, Mary!" the King replied. "Just wait till I get you back to England; you can show me the ways of the French!"

Francis looked over at her apologetically. Anne, however, was horror struck. Her sister was now cavorting with the King of England. All the while, the Queen of England was not ten feet away in the Great Hall with their daughter. Mary and Henry chased each other across the lawns. When Henry caught her, he swept her up and kissed her passionately, making sounds like a blocked drain. Anne winced, wrinkling her nose. God alone knew what would come of Mary's latest foolishness. And, did she hear right, Henry was taking Mary back to England? She couldn't pretend she hoped it wasn't true; it would mean she would go as well, and she could be with Francis. In that light, she almost forgot her deep disapproval of Mary's wanton ways.

* * *

That night, Francis lay awake in bed. Propped up against the pillows, with the candles still lit, he held Anne's favours twined around his fingers. He could smell her rosewater on the silk. He could pick out every individual stitch in the silver falcon against the blue silk ribbon, made by Anne's own hand. He pressed it to his lips once more, remembering the kiss they shared before slipping it under his pillow as he turned to try and go to sleep. Sleep – if only he could, for thinking of her. Thinking of her returning to England with her sister, Henry's latest squeeze. That night, the possibilities seemed endless.


	5. Perpetual Peace

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, all feedback is especially welcome. The usual disclaimers apply: I own none of this. Thanks again for reading, and if you have a moment, reviews would be welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Five: Perpetual Peace**

Princess Mary, dressed in satin and silk, with a silver and gold diadem on her head, stood at one end of the dais. She held her own miniature ermine train as she took the first small steps towards her future husband, the young Dauphin. In the audience, Francis turned to King Henry, who watched his daughter adoringly beside Queen Catherine, who in turn set aside her dislike for the D'Valois to enjoy the moment. At the other end of the dais, the Dauphin, dressed in blue velvet decorated with fleur de lys, reciprocated. The two children met half way, whereupon the Dauphin bowed elegantly to the English Princess, eliciting a ripple of applause from all sides.

"I am honoured to meet you, Your Grace," the Dauphin addressed Mary in heavily accented, faltering English.

Mary gathered her satin skirts and curtseyed, before replying in equally impaired French:

"Likewise, Your Majesty."

She leaned forwards and planted a chaste kiss on the Dauphin's cheek, which brought out two very different reactions. The audience, comprised of both the English and French Courts, sighed adoringly. But, the Dauphin screwed up his face and swiped at the spot Mary had kissed with a disgusted: "Urgh!" Before anyone could do anything, Mary's expression deepened into a scowl of indignation as she shoved the Dauphin with all her might, sending him staggering backwards. The English, with King Henry chief among them, snorted with laughter. Even a smattering of applause from more ardent opponents of the treaty. So much for perpetual peace.

It was only a dark look shot to Henry by King Francois that recalled him to his manners.

"Mary!" he admonished the Princess, voice raised firmly. The effect of the rebuke somewhat reduced by the fact that both he and Catherine were still grinning.

With house of Tudor and the house of Valois joined in an alliance of marriage, the children were collected from the dais and returned to their proud parents. When Lady Salisbury returned with the Princess, Catherine took a hold of Mary and pulled her onto her lap. Francis listened with a grin on his face as Catherine whispered low in Mary's ear: "good girl!"

The day's formalities were concluded with the somewhat botched kiss, the atmosphere of solemnity gave way to easy chatter. Francis got up, taking his leave of the two Kings to take the air outside. As he passed by the French contingent, he caught Anne's eye, but she was busy interpreting for Queen Claude. He noted how seamlessly Anne slipped between the two languages, as if she were a born speaker of French. Even her English, he had noted, had a natural French accent to it.

He passed by the guards on the door and slipped into the empty courtyard. Grateful to be out of the hot marquee, he breathed the open deeply to clear his head. The Golden City had begun to lose its sheen. Four days of endless celebrations, feasting and drinking had taken its toll in the form of a slightly off smell of piss and vomit combined. The cloth of gold and painted canvass was beginning to look worn and battered, and they were still only half way through the conference.

Francis was about to set off on a walk around the back gardens when someone else exited the main marquee, calling out to him to wait up. He turned to see Queen Catherine, divested of her army of Ladies in Waiting, passing under the halberds of the guards on the door. Having not had a chance to speak with the Queen since leaving London, almost two weeks previously, he welcomed her warmly and kissed her hand.

"Walk with me," she said, returning his smile.

He offered his arm to the tired looking Queen and, together, they set off the relative privacy of the rose gardens. In the daylight, they could see the vivid colour of the roses in full summer bloom. A water fountain gurgled pleasantly and the warm air here was scented by the flowers, rather than the press of bodies nearby. He was about to use their surroundings to make small talk, before Catherine herself dispensed with it, moving straight to business.

"Did you see the Duke of Buckingham in there?" she asked, keeping her voice low and unhurried.

Now that he thought of it, he couldn't recall seeing the over-mighty Duke present. Whenever Francis imagined Edward Stafford, he imagined him scowling away in his own mock Court, wearing a paper crown with his personal fool acting the part of the Courtiers. Buckingham was building himself up for an almighty fall. Everyone knew it, except for the Duke himself it seemed. He looked over to Catherine, her blue eyes were downcast as though something weighed heavily on her heart and it worried him to see her like this.

"Would you like me to speak with the Duke?" he asked, thinking she was in mourning for the friendship she and Henry once shared with Buckingham.

"No!" Catherine replied sharply. She quickly softened her tone with a small smile. "I did not mean to snap at you. But I want you to do no such thing. No matter what you hear about Buckingham, you must not intervene."

He had heard the rumours about Buckingham's retainers. There were far more retainers than necessary and some people might refer to them as a private army. They could all guess why a man like that would want his own private army. However, guessing was one thing and proof another and it's not like anyone took the Duke too seriously.

"That man owes my family everything," Francis remarked, feeling the slight against his family for the first time. "If it hadn't been for my grandmother arranging to have him smuggled away disguised as a girl, he would probably be dead right now. It's only thanks to my father that he was restored to his father's lands and titles."

Catherine laughed. "I heard that story," she replied. "I remember your grandmother well enough to know it's more than likely true. Fine way to repay the favour, no?"

They came to a rest at a bench overlooking the fountain and sat down. In the water pooling at the fountain's base, Francis could see the silver-finned fish darting through the undercurrents. Lithe, elegant but slippery. Rather akin to the English aristocracy, when he compared the two.

"Is it too late for Buckingham, then?" he asked, remembering Catherine's earlier advice about keeping his distance.

"Henry will formalise the investigation as soon as we get home," Catherine answered, tilting his chin so he was looking directly at her. "Don't look so worried: Henry would never suspect you of being involved in any plots against him."

"So, why the strict warnings?" he asked.

Now, Catherine smiled. "Because you could use the Duke's fall to get a foothold of your own," she answered. Registering the look of distaste on his face, she quickly clarified her point: "What I mean is, this jolt that's coming Henry's way will be a stark reminder not to take his friends and family for granted. Why don't you capitalise on that, and use this as an opportunity to wrest some power for yourself? You should be manning the North by now."

Only a week ago, he would have jumped at the chance to be sent to York, to head up the Council of the North. But that was before he met Anne, before he found out that she and her sister were being recalled to England. He appreciated the Queen's advice, he always did as she was usually right. But on this occasion, he finds himself retreating while keeping up an appearance of enthusiasm.

"Now that the time has come, I don't even know if I'm ready," he replied.

"Oh, nonsense!" Catherine batted away his reluctance. "I'll even speak with the King for you, just as soon as all this unpleasantness is over."

With that, Catherine stood and shook out her skirts. A thousand gems stitched into the fabrics caught the sunlight and glittered as she straightened herself out again. He got up and bowed as she left. When he righted his position, he watched as she walked away towards the Hall. As she passed through the gate, Lady Anne suddenly appeared from around the corner. For a second, the two women looked at one another. Having spent her whole life in France, Anne didn't not seem to recognise Queen Catherine immediately. However, the penny soon dropped and the younger woman sank to her knees by the side of the path, lowering her head meekly as the Queen moved past.

As soon as Catherine was out of sight, Francis closed the gap between himself and Anne. He raised her up, surprised at how much she was trembling. But, he reasoned, she did not know Queen Catherine as he did. To Anne, Catherine was a remote figure she read about in Court circulars, ordained by God to be Queen of England.

"Oh sweet Jesu," Anne said, glancing over her shoulder, to the spot where Catherine vanished. "You don't think she saw me, did you?"

"You were right in front of her," Francis pointed out. "She's not blind."

Anne laughed nervously and playfully swatted his arm. "You know what I mean, Francis!" she cried, flinging her arms out in despair. "I thought she was a Duchess or something, I didn't realise she was the actual Queen and I just gawped at her like a village simpleton."

Her exaggerated embarrassment at only the slightest of faux pas rendered her even more endearing to him. He couldn't help but laugh as he led her over to the bench. The very same bench that the Queen herself had planted her posterior not one minute before. Suspecting that Anne was now possibly afraid of that spot, he took it himself.

"She's used to being looked at," he tried to sooth her. "The same with Henry. Even little Mary is getting the hang of being the centre of attention. We're Royal. We love to be loved."

Placing an arm around the back of the bench, Anne leaned her head back, resting it against his shoulder. They could see into each other's eyes clearly, the coal-dark locking into the sky-blue, and lingering there. With his free hand, Francis traced the line of her cheekbone.

"I'm not exactly everyone," she whispered. "But I hope you will be content to be loved by me."

"Content?" he repeated back to her. "Ecstatic, more like!"

"Won't your brother wish to marry you off to some foreign Duchess?" she asked, reminding him painfully that neither he, nor she, were at liberty to marry where they wanted. "My father wants me to marry the Earl of Ormond's son, my Butler cousin."

The smooth, towering bulk of Cardinal Wolsey rose up in Francis's mind. The Cardinal, for his faults, was always the first line in defence against any unwanted legal difficulties. If there was no loophole for the Cardinal to exploit, then he'd simply flash enough cash to make the problem resolve itself by financial magic. Despite the vulgarity of it, Francis still found himself wondering how much Thomas Boleyn's approval would cost him. Possibly more than if his other daughter hadn't been sleeping with the King for free. He may want compensation.

"Impediments can be found in almost all marriages, my lady," he pointed out. "If it comes to pass, a way can be found to break it."

He noted her sigh of relief with satisfaction. He couldn't let a girl like her wither away in Dublin. She belonged in Paris. Or London, at least. She would be wasted on any Provincial backwater. She closed her eyes, seemingly relishing the sun on her face. For the first time that day, Francis too felt the first comforting rays of contentment fill his mind. Even if it was only coming second hand from Anne.

"Am I allowed to ask what you and Her Majesty were discussing?"

He was not in the least bit inclined to go over the business of the Duke of Buckingham again, so he waved her question aside. "Nothing really," he finally answered. "Just some unpleasant business for Henry. But, she did promise to speak to the King about my becoming Lord of the North in my own right."

Suddenly, Anne jolted and sat up.

"But that's good, isn't it?" she asked. "This would give you sway over everything North of the river Humber. But then, you would be working with my Uncle, Norfolk." Anne added the last sentence with a degree of reservation, as though he may was well be working with the Devil. Having known the Duke of Norfolk for some time, he could easily see why.

"I want to be in London," he protested weakly. "With you."

An eye-sparkling smile lit up Anne's face, just for a few moments before her happiness faded.

"We will work something out, won't we?" she asked, nervously. "I mean, if I betrothed to a Duke, my family are hardly likely to say no. But yours? The King, I mean. Like I said, he probably has an alliance etched out for you, already."

His father had wanted to marry him off to one of Queen Catherine's Cousins, but had died before he could reach a conclusion with the negotiations. He knew, also, that Catherine was still keen on the idea of an Imperial match to further bolster the Anglo-Spanish alliance. Francis found himself relying on Henry's distrust of the Spanish – borne of Ferdinand of Aragon's arrogant betrayal of him during the French Wars – to keep him safe from that, for the time being. But now Ferdinand, Catherine's father, was long in his grave; it was Catherine's nephew, Charles V, who ruled not just Spain, but the Holy Roman Empire.

"Henry won't marry me to one of Catherine's relatives, because they're already too powerful, in his eyes," Francis explained. "He won't marry me off to the French, because he doesn't trust them-"

"But, Princess Mary?"

"Is young enough for the alliance to break at any moment without any messy upsets," he put her right. "We'll be building snowmen in Hell before that marriage takes place. I know my brother, he's an astute man who keeps his cards to his chest. But look, let's not worry ourselves about this now. We have all the time in the world to worry."

"I know," she agreed. "I just don't like uncertainties."

Francis tightened his grip on her shoulders, pulling her in closer and kissing her forehead. Anne responded with a sigh of contentment and cuddling in closer. For now, both of them would have to be content to live in the moment, regardless of the future.

* * *

That night, the King kept to his chambers. Even Mary Boleyn had to content herself with adjusting to her new role as Queen Catherine's new Lady in Waiting. Francis watched her reciting verse with other women in the outer-chambers and wondered what it must be like for Catherine? Having Henry's mistress in her retinue, yet never saying anything about it. Bessie Blount had been the same. Years ago, when Henry was newly crowned, it had been the same with Buckingham's sister, Anna Stafford. But, at least the three women had arrived several years apart and Henry was constantly discreet. It wasn't as if he kept a harem, like King Francois.

Francis passed through the outer chamber with a nod of recognition to Mary, and went straight through to Henry's apartments. He was in there with Cardinal Wolsey and Sir Thomas More. Two of the most trusted advisers in England. All three were sat around the same card table, but there wasn't a deck of cards in sight. They had wine, along with food that was going ignored. However, the atmosphere was sombre.

"I will not subject my Queen to talk of treason," Henry was explaining to the other two. "She has worries of her own and I do not wish to burden her further."

"Quite understandable, Harry," replied Thomas More. "But, you can understand our urging you to act sooner, rather than later."

"Thomas is right, Your Grace," Wolsey put in. "Buckingham is rich, he has many tenants who're ready to take up arms for him."

Sensing the situation with Buckingham had grown worse since he spoke with Queen Catherine that afternoon, Francis tried to hang back to listen in a little more. However, his honesty got the better of him and he stepped into the room. Henry was about to speak again, but the expression on his face changed from gravity and light relief when he saw his brother. In a swift change of tack, he gestured for a servant to procure an extra chair and more wine for Francis. Both Sir Thomas and the Cardinal turned to greet him warmly.

"Come on in and sit down, Francis," said Henry. "Beside me, if you will."

"Thank you, Henry," he replied, taking his seat from the servant and placing it himself. "You summoned me?"

"I did," said Henry. "The Duke of Buckingham has decided he's too good for our company and left us early."

Just when he was beginning to think the Duke couldn't possibly be any more idiotic.

"That's an awful shame," Francis said, completely lacking in sincerity. "He will be missed."

Wolsey and More laughed, but soon became serious again when the King explained his reasons for summoning Francis.

"When we return to England in three day's time," he said. "There will be a trial. You will preside over that trial. Your first taste of official life. Does that suit you?"

Francis looked back at Henry in surprise, excited at the prospect of heading up a criminal trial.

"It suits me very well!" he exclaimed. "Will I be handling evidence or questioning witnesses?"

His enthusiasm was clearly infectious, going by the indulgent smiles of the others. But Thomas More, a trained Lawyer by profession, gently burst his bubble.

"You won't need to worry yourself too much about that," he said. "But you will be at the trial and you'll be there when the sentence is pronounced."

"If found guilty," Henry added, which they all knew Buckingham was, anyway. "You will also be there to make sure all is done properly."

"Oh, so you want me to organise his execution," he blandly surmised. "But, I can do that too! He's an enemy of my house!"

Henry took a draught of wine and reached out to ruffle Francis's hair. He wanted to squirm, but held his composure in case Henry changed his mind about entrusting him with so much responsibility. Once Henry had drained his goblet of wine, he placed it back down on the table looking contemplative. His expression was oddly downcast, despite having apparently rooted out a traitor before any real damage could be done.

"Gentlemen," he said, addressing all three of his companions. "There is one thing only that will protect me from the likes of Edward Stafford, and that is an heir male. A Prince of Wales to succeed me. My parents knew it. When Arthur died, they immediately set about getting another heir to replace him despite their grief."

Francis flushed slightly and tried to hide behind his goblet. He knew he had been conceived purely as a spare, as back-up for Henry should anything go wrong. It wasn't that he felt devalued as a human being. After all, all his brothers and sisters were conceived for the same intention.

"We all pray for a son for Your Majesty," Thomas More said, trying to allay the King's fears.

However, it was hopeless. They all knew it.

"The Queen is barren, Thomas," Henry said. "I love her. I have always loved her and I always will love her. But there will be no more heirs from her. Let us not delude ourselves."

Now, Wolsey leaned across the table. "God may let favour you-"

"She wears a hair shirt, Thomas," Henry interjected.

Francis felt a pang of sickness at this revelation. Hair shirts were designed to rub the skin off the wearer's back, in penance for sins committed. He had no idea Queen Catherine had been wearing one, in a desperate attempt to win the favour of the saints and be blessed with one more child. Henry continued: "She prays for hours; she fasts and observes every religious ceremony while making more of her own. Still, she is barren."

Francis watched his brother intently. It seemed as if Henry had aged, in that one moment, as he pondered his own vulnerability. England was just a heartbeat away from civil war.

"What about Francis?" Wosley stated, as if he wasn't in the room.

Henry glanced over at Francis, reassuring him with a smile. "If it comes to that, then so be it. But an heir would still end our problems in a way a brother never could."

There was no arguing with that statement, but what of Queen Catherine. Henry, unwilling to discuss the issue further sent Francis back to his chambers so he never got to find out. But something was happening; he could feel it in the very air of that room.


	6. Home Again

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback is very much appreciated. Thank you. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Home Again**

Anne turned away from the window in her chambers and sighed deeply. She had been waiting for the messenger all day, but the road to their house remained stubbornly empty. In the room next door she could hear the muffled chaos of Mary packing, readying herself to return to England. She frowned at the partition wall, as though trying to see through it. The packing continued, the messenger with her Court summons remained conspicuous by his absence. Unable to endure the wait any longer, she gathered her cloak around her shoulders and walked over to Mary's room.

Inside, she found her sister flinging gowns, lengths of fabric and loose, unmatched stockings into a travelling trunk. Every servant in the house had been put to work on the great removal of Mary Boleyn, while she herself dropped everything to read a letter from King Henry for the umpteenth time. However, as Mary picked up the letter, she caught sight of Anne hovering in the doorway. They met each other's gaze and smiled in recognition.

"Sister, is everything alright?" asked Mary, closing the gap between them.

Anne allowed herself to be led inside and be seated in the window embrasure. Ignoring the continued panic packing going on around her, Anne raised her voice to make herself heard.

"I haven't received an invite to the English Court yet," she explained. "It should be here by now."

The smile of Mary's face became rather stilted, her gaze no longer quite meeting Anne's. A feeling of foreboding rose in her belly, made worse as Mary seemed to be stammering over an explanation. For what it was worth, Mary looked deeply apologetic.

"Anne," she replied, covering her hands with her own. "I'm sorry, Sister. You are to remain here. There is no room for you in Queen Catherine's retinue."

The confirmation of her fears felt like a slap in the face.

"You're leaving me here alone?" was her first question, asked while trying to bite back tears. "I-I just assumed I would be coming with you. I told Francis-"

"The Duke of York?" Mary cut over her, fixing Anne with a penetrating look. "You spent a lot of time with him, I noticed."

Anne swallowed hard as she returned Mary's look. She couldn't quite believe the look of reproof in Mary's eyes.

"And I noticed you spending a lot of time with King Henry, despite him being a married man," she shot back.

Mary slumped back and sighed in exasperation.

"I did not mean it like that," she said. "But Anne, neither you nor Francis are at liberty to go developing such feelings. Nothing could ever come of it, don't you see that? He is a Duke barely of age. You are the daughter of an Ambassador."

Anne's eyes widened. "And what can come of your affair with King Henry?" she demanded to know.

Mary flushed slightly, a pink hue creeping into her cheeks.

"If I am lucky, a few months –maybe a year – of fun, followed by a respectable marriage and a lifetime of security," she explained. "You only get that by being a King's mistress. For being a Duke's mistress, you get a sullied reputation and not a lot else." Mary paused, checking to see if her message was hitting home. "Anne, you haven't done anything, have you?"

"Of course not!" Anne hotly retorted, the first of her tears leaking from the corner of her eye. Tears that betrayed the fact that she had yearned for it to happen. Only her cast iron propriety stayed her hand and kept her skirts in place. In her own anger and heartache, she wanted to shout: 'I'm not like you!' at her. But she could not. She could see, now, that she had been a fool to let herself fall so hard and so fast. If she should be angry at anyone, she knew she should be angry at herself.

Mary picked a clean handkerchief from a stack of nearby fabrics and handed it to Anne. As she finished drying her tears, Mary pulled her into a hug. However, once there, Anne was hit by a fresh wave of emotion as the reality of their leaving hit her all over again. Mary did what she could; rocking her and rubbing her back to sooth her tears. After at least ten minutes, Mary pulled away and looked Anne square in the eye.

"If he is an honourable man; if he is truly worthy of your love, he will wait for you," she said. "If he does wait for you, and you still feel the same, then you marry him come what may. You will be the luckiest girl in the world."

When Anne lifted her gaze to meet Mary's, and she saw the earnestness in her eyes, she became eternally grateful that she had not shouted at her. Mary may be found wanting in the morality stakes, but there was no denying her true heart and loyal nature.

"There are too many ifs in your words for me to take true comfort, sister," she replied, managing a small laugh. "But, I know you speak true all the same."

Mary gave Anne another quick squeeze.

"I will entreat the King to recall you," Mary promised. "I know not what scandal you and Francis will create, if you do mean to be together. But I will work on your behalf, all the same."

Pillow talk was all that Anne could hope for and it was all that Mary could truly do. For that, Anne was grateful. Amongst the gloom, she felt a little hope spring anew. This evening, when the English Court left France with their longed for peace treaty, she would put on her best gown and go to wave them off. Her heart was set on seeing Francis one last time before the moment of parting.

* * *

Many of the English court were paying the price for the previous night's excesses. The final celebrations had reached a less than cordial end after Henry and King Francois had engaged in a, supposedly friendly, wrestling match. Francois had won the day and Henry had been left to drown his sorrows with his Gentlemen. However, Francis's sore head had taken on a whole new intensity as he looked at a list of the names of those returning with them to England. Lady Anne Boleyn's name was not on there, after all. Only Mary Boleyn, along with a few other ladies of English birth were coming home with them.

Once he'd recovered himself enough to walk in a straight line, Francis insisted on dragging George Boleyn into Calais with him. George looked pale at the outset. By the time they reached Calais, he looked fit to drop. At every shop they stopped at, he leaned heavily against the walls and groaned aloud while nursing his head in his hands.

Outside the goldsmiths, George took up his normal, slouching position and regarded Francis coolly through one eye. The other, he kept shut against the harsh sunlight.

"Between you," he said. "You and the King will be the ruin of both my sisters. Now, you're going to be the death of me, too!"

"Stop moaning, George!" Francis replied, rolling his eyes at George. "Come and help me pick a gift for Anne. I want to give her something to remember me by."

"A bastard," George muttered, under his breath.

"Careful, George," warned Francis, turning suddenly irritable.

George immediately realised he had overstepped the mark and apologised. Just as the iron monger over the road began hammering away at a sheet of metal, the clangour making them both recoil.

"God's death!" George cursed, grasping Francis's wrist and leading him firmly away.

Francis offered no resistance, willingly allowing himself to be marched off down the cobbled street. However, he was on a mission for Anne. He had not forgotten the token of his ongoing devotion to impart to her before they left for home. As they stumbled down the street, they studied every stall and shop they passed, while George kept up a stream of suggestions. As they reached a row of ramshackle shops that leaned dangerously, George stopped dead in his tracks as though hit by divine inspiration.

"There!" he said, pointing at one building in particular.

The business George pointed out was, outwardly, no different to those that surrounded it. For a moment, Francis just assumed it was a pie shop and was about to pass over it. However, in the window, was an array of silk flowers, all handmade. Deciding that it was worth a try, at least, Francis nodded towards it and led the way inside.

Within its walls, an elderly lady sat in a wooden rocking chair bent over her work. Her iron grey hair was mostly hidden beneath a frayed headscarf; eyes squinted so they looked almost closed as she worked the needle through the silk in her gnarled, red hands. As they both entered, she did not look up, or seem to notice them at all. Thinking that she was possibly hard of hearing, Francis cleared his throat to get her attention and, finally, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

After greeting each other in French, Francis approached the lady's work station to view her wares.

"Excuse us," said Francis, still using French. "I need something for a lady."

Beside him, he could hear George stifle a laugh so he gave him a quick dig in the ribs with his elbow. Meanwhile, the old girl looked at him, her gaze resting on the clasp at the neck of his cloak. Wondering whether they was something amiss with it, he reached for it. But, the woman looked away and burrowed about under the counter for a few minutes. She returned with two silk roses in her hands and laid them both on the counter. One was red, the other white. Second guessing where she was going, Francis smiled approvingly.

"I can make you one," she said, in English but pointing again to the clasp of his cloak. On it, was a red and white Tudor rose.

"That would be perfect, thank you mistress," replied Francis, sticking with French.

The old lady smiled and began unpicking some of the petals from the red rose, ready to replace them with white ones. While she worked, she chattered good naturedly with them. They covered the weather while she extracted some white petals to stitch onto the red.

"I remember your father," she said, relapsing in to French.

Francis assumed she was talking to George, whose father regularly undertook foreign embassies to France. However, she was looking directly at him, her old grey-blue eyes beginning to twinkle.

"When I was a child, I made flowers for the Duchess of Brittany," she elaborated, her voice cracked with age. But, she was smiling. "Your father was the age you are now."

"She must be bloody ancient," George whispered in his ear, earning himself a much sharper dig in the ribs.

Francis wasn't concerned with the woman's age; he was more curious about how she knew who he was. He hadn't told her his name and a Tudor Rose was a common enough sight on any Englishman. She was re-stitching the white petals, by then. But she paused and looked at Francis again, the smile on her face revealing missing front teeth.

"I ignored you when you came in," she said. "I thought you were his ghost."

It was an unusual combination of looks that he had, everyone said it. They also said he took after his father – a man he only remembered as a cold, emaciated corpse in a casket. The dark hair, pale skin and blue eyes surrounded by a wiry frame. He had been born and reared in London, but many referred to him as "Welsh" in looks. Now, he guessed, Francis knew what they all meant.

"I am as alive as you," he assured her.

She laughed in response. "You've a little longer in you than I, my child," she replied, at length.

Taking a moment to compose herself, the old lady resumed stitching in the white silk petals. Francis could see the tiny, intricate stitches securing each silk fold in place, around the dark centre. Meanwhile, the old lady chattered quietly, more to herself than anyone else, about the old days. After an hour, it seemed she had finished. However, she reached up to a jar on the shelf, filled with silver filings so minute it looked to be full of glittering dust. Then, she glazed the petals of the silk rose with a film of glue, before dipping it into the silver dust. After she had blown off the excess, the rose looked frosted and caught the light beautifully.

"That's perfect," he told her, settling on a price that was almost equal to his full weekly allowance. But, he told himself, Lady Anne was always worth it.

Once the transaction was complete, the old lady looked up at him through narrowed eyes that were too used to the minute work of her craft.

"Look after your lady. You'll have a fight on your hands," she said, by way of parting. "You Tudors always do."

* * *

King Henry watched from the balcony as the golden city vanished before his eyes. A full year of preparation, a week of celebrations and, now, it was gone as swiftly as it was erected. He had the peace treaty; the Cardinal was measuring up the papal tiara he was still convinced had his name on it and he was set to become known as Henry the peace maker. A few years ago, he would have baulked at the idea. But, as he watched Mary playing in the garden with her Governess, he knew he was doing the right thing. If he should die, leaving the throne to a vulnerable girl... Well, he knew what would happen, anyway. Peace or no, the French would give her hell as the easy pickings Princess Mary would undoubtedly be. Then there were her greedy Spanish relatives and, even more dangerously, her greedy English relatives all with rival claims to the throne. There was, in reality, no real way in which he could soften the blow of his premature death. On reflection, it was best he keep breathing – for all their sakes.

Before he could turn grey with worry, he turned back in to the room where Mary Boleyn lay on the bed, twirling a lock of hair round her finger. She ceased when she saw him looking and smiled up at him, with nothing but a sheet to protect her modesty. However, one slender leg had found its way out of the coverlet and her bare foot rested on the floor. Fetching them both some wine, he carried a goblet over to her and kissed her forehead.

"There you go, my darling," he said, handing her a goblet. "Are you ready for your journey home?"

Her smile widened as she sat up to sip at her wine.

"It's been so long since I saw home," she replied, sounding wistful. "I cannot wait to see the cliffs of Dover come into view. But, I will miss my sister."

Henry trailed a finger down over the swell of her breast.

"What is her name, again?" he asked.

"Anne," replied Mary.

Henry was lost in the delight of Mary's breasts, however. With a deep breath, he lay back on the bed, at her side.

"You'll see her again soon, I am sure," he assured her, then closed his eyes. "There's going to be trouble when we get back to England. I don't know how much, exactly. But I think the Duke of Buckingham will be waiting to meet me with an army of his own."

Mary, unsure of what to do with the information, simply draped an arm around the King's shoulders. Hoping the effect was comforting and reassuring, she made some quiet shushing noises.

"Surely, no one would dare to take you on?" she asked.

Henry opened his eyes again and looked up at her, batting away a loose curl from his view of her breasts.

"I wouldn't put anything past Buckingham," he replied. "So, when we get back on dry land, I want you to stay back with the Queen's ladies, while we ride ahead with the yeomen. The Dukes of York, Suffolk and Norfolk will be with me, with their retainers. The Queen's guards will stay with you and the rest of the ladies. Don't be afraid."

"Duke Francis will be with you?" she asked, frowning slightly.

Henry looked surprised by the question. "Of course. He's my brother, so he can help defend my crown if need be."

She schooled her expression and drew a leisurely breath, affecting an air of polite interest. "It must be very hard for you to put your family on the front line, that's all."

"Mmm," he replied, giving her a squeeze. "Well, that's us, Mary. It's time we were moving off. The others will follow us. I've to meet my brother before we leave."

With that, he rolled off the bed again and put on his cloak. Outside, the day was ending and already the Royal Procession was forming up. The Queen and Princess were already out and waiting for him. Mary followed, pulling a loose gown over her head and retrieving her shoes. She had to say goodbye to France, as well as her sister.

* * *

There wasn't much time left. An hour at most before everyone began to leave. Anne huddled deeper into her cloak as she waited in the rose garden for Francis to come. She had been waiting for almost a half-hour, before he finally arrived. Breathing a sigh of relief, they rushed up to meet each other half way.

"I thought you weren't coming," she said, holding him close.

"I thought you would have given up waiting for me," he replied, light with relief. "I tried anyway. Henry kept me behind."

They relinquished their grip on each other as Francis led her over to the same bench they had sat on night after night, throughout the whole conference. This time was different, it would be the last they saw of each other until God knew when. Yet, there was much to say and do before the moment of separation inevitably came.

"Mary told me you're expecting trouble when you get to England," she said, prompting him to elaborate.

He shook his head, dismissively.

"It will likely be nothing, but we may be facing a rebellion of some sort," he answered. Seeing her grow pale, he quickly reassured her. "We already know about it, so do not fear. Our men far outnumber Buckingham's. When I defeat him, I'll send you his head on a spike for your own amusement."

She grinned, cupping his face with her hands. "I'll use it as a Christmas bauble," she jested, punctuating each word with a kiss. "But promise me, you will stay safe for when I return to England, when we can be together?"

His blue eyes locked into her dark eyes, each memorising the others for sake of memory. Slowly, he nodded.

"The thought of you will keep me safe," he whispered, leaning in to kiss her.

When they drew apart, he fished in his inside pocket for the velvet pouch which contained her gift of a silk, Tudor Rose. Gently, he placed it in her hand and kissed her cheek.

"A gift for you, to remember me by," he said.

Anne looked down at the purple velvet, soft and fluid like in the palm of her hand. Instantaneously, tears sprang into her eyes – despite swearing to herself that she would keep her emotions firmly in check. She opened it up and withdrew the rose within. The finished product, the frosted red and white petals caught the light of the setting sun, causing the breath to hitch in her throat.

"It's beautiful," she sighed, holding it up to the light. "I'll treasure it always."

In the distance, the horns sounded – the siren for the Royal procession to form. Anne's heart beat fluttered in her chest as she cast around for a gift to give in exchange. Eventually, she pulled a small, diamond ring from her finger and pressed it into his palm.

"For you," she said, planting another kiss on his cheek. "Think of me."

Francis looked over his shoulder, even though they couldn't actually see anything of the procession from there. Then, he helped her to her feet and they kissed for one final time. Deeply, longingly and for an indeterminate time. Until the second horn sounded, and Francis could delay no longer. He dried a tear that had trickled down her cheek and mercifully kept his own in check.

"If you're not back in England soon," he told her. "I'll come back and get you, myself. I mean it."

With that, they reluctantly parted. Anne stood at the gate of the garden, watching until Francis vanished into the swell of the crowds and was gone from sight. Unable to bear the lonely vigil, she slowly turned and returned to headquarters of Queen Claude's ladies. It was back to business as usual.

* * *

**Thanks again for reading; if you have a minute, please review. **


	7. Treason and Plot

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your comments mean a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. Thanks again for reading and reviews would be most welcome.

Seeing as Nan Saville was used in the show and not a real person, I've inserted her into this story too. Anne needs company in France.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Treason and Plot**

The direction of the winds sent the Royal fleet rolling into the port of Southampton earlier than expected. Although, as if to compensate for the swift travelling time, the journey had been an unexpectedly rough one. Even the King, an experienced sailor in his own right, had been forced to seek shelter below deck, with the Queen and Princess Mary. Only once the ship had safely docked was he able to convene a meeting to draw up a plan of attack against the Duke of Buckingham. It would be held during the normally dull hours between docking and disembarking.

Francis received his summons just as he was waking from a fitful nap. He'd been so sick during the crossing that he had actually passed out and, since then, George Boleyn had insisted that he be confined to the narrow, wood-framed bed in his berth. It only served to make the journey that little bit more uncomfortable, but it gave him something other than Anne Boleyn to dwell on. Not that dwelling on Anne was something he outright objected to. On the contrary, it was a perfectly pleasant way of whiling away the hours. It was just that now he and she were separated, and for God only knew how long, the memory of their time together only brought with it an ache of longing, a bitter aftertaste of regret.

George entered the cabin and handed him a bowl of clean, but bitingly cold water to splash his face with before dressing for the meeting.

"A messenger's been on board already," George informed him as he helped remove Francis' shirt. "I did tell the King's messenger that you're frightful sick-"

"George! Henry's not going to let me off just because I threw up on a boat," Francis interjected as he dashed a handful of water over his face. He shuddered in the sudden cold, trying not to notice the freezing droplets rolling down his torso and bringing him out in goose flesh. "Anyway, I want to be a part of this. It's my family that's under threat and this is the first time that Henry's actually trusted me with something. If I let him down now, I…"

His words broke off before he could explain himself fully. But he was keener than ever to start making his own way at Court. If he was going to bring Anne back to England sooner, rather than later, he needed his own establishment into which she could make herself at home. George, however, was directing a dark and mutinous glower at his boots. George only ever did that when he, Francis, was about to do something foolish enough to land them both in trouble and it was above his station to try and prevent it. Francis sighed as he took a warmed towel from him and tried to be reassuring.

"Henry won't put me in real danger," he said, not knowing whether that was even true or not. "And, if I die, there's plenty of other households you can run-"

"That's not what ails me," George cut in. "It's the messenger that came on board."

Francis' eyes darkened into a frown. "You heard the message?"

"Everyone did," he answered. "Buckingham has already assembled an army of men. He's marching on Southampton trying to raise more men as goes, and you'll be met half way by this vast troop."

"That sly old dog," Francis murmured in response, towelling himself quickly. "Pass me a clean shirt, I must go at once."

* * *

Anne was back in Paris by nightfall, the day after Francis and the English party had left. All she had left of her time with him was the gift he had given her of a silk Tudor rose. All the way through the journey in the bumpy carriage, she had cradled it in the palms of her hands as she recalled the minute details of their time together. At the end of her journey, she stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the darkening Parisian skies louring overhead. By now, she thought to herself, Mary, Francis and George would be in dock. Possibly on their way to London already, unless the strife with Buckingham really is serious.

She tucked the silk rose away in the pocket of her traveling cloak and stepped out into the street. The smell from nearby stream was eye-wateringly bad and she found herself having to side-step a large gaggle of badly dressed street beggars as she went. They held up bowls made from baked mud as she passed, all hollow eyed pleading as she passed. All she could do was apologise in French, try to explain that the King and Queen would be distributing alms as soon as they returned. But that time was not now. Waiting could be fatal to those who were slowly starving to death.

The Guard at the gates of the Palace opened up for her and staved off the beggars with one flourish of his staff. It was enough to make them scatter like autumn leaves on the wind, regrouping several feet away as they huddled together for warmth. Anne thanked the man curtly as she passed on her way.

"Anne!"

A familiar voice called out her name and she whirled round to see Nan Saville, a fellow Englishwoman, trotting towards her. It looked as though she had just returned from town, or the nearby marketplace – except that both would have closed down several hours ago.

"I thought you would have returned with everyone else?" Anne said, changing direction to meet up with Nan in the Palace courtyard.

Nan frowned reprovingly. "Did you not notice, Anne?" she laughed. "I didn't even go to Calais. I was stuck here helping to mind one of Francois' bastards. He was throwing up everywhere!"

Anne made a face. "Sounds delightful. Where have you been?"

While they talked, they walked towards Palais du Louvre which came into full, spectacular view as they rounded the corner and began strolling up the long driveway. Anne could see hundreds of tiny dots of light emanating from the windows, merging in the descending darkness to form a peculiar, ethereal glow.

"I was at a gathering in a tavern," Nan answered, holding something out to Anne.

She took it and opened the note. It read: 'As soon as the coin in the coffer rings, the soul in Purgatory into Heaven springs.' She laughed as she handed it back to Nan. "That sounds about right!"

"You know, now that we're the last of the English girls, we should stick together," Nan suggested, saying no more about the strange note she had shown to her. "Come with me to the next gathering. It should be a fresh challenge for someone like you."

It beat moping about the Palace all day and pining over distant lovers. But, Anne had never considered herself before, so didn't know whether or not it would come as a fresh challenge for someone like her. However, there was only one way to find out and she found herself readily agreeing.

* * *

By the time the meeting was wrapping up, darkness had fallen outside and the women were already gone, on their way back to London via a safe route. The people remaining were King Henry, the Dukes of York, Suffolk and Norfolk; as well the Earls of Shrewsbury, Essex, Northumberland and Warwick. Between them, however, they commanded an army of thousands. Easily enough to take on the Duke of Buckingham, especially since the Duke wasn't expecting them to dock for another twenty-four hours. However, as with all battles, the King was leaving nothing to chance.

Francis was able to catch up with Henry as they finally left the boat down the gangplank, onto dry land at last. He looked careworn, to Francis. Older than he had looked before. This act of betrayal had shaken him, whether Henry cared to show it or not.

"Henry," he said, softly placing his hand on the King's arm. "We'll put this rebellion down in no time."

Henry looked at him and managed to raise a pained smile. "It's not that," he replied, moving his arm so that is placed around Francis' shoulders. "I have no doubt in the abilities of any of the men here. It's just-"

"The betrayal," Francis finished the sentence for him.

Henry really did wear his heart on his sleeve, sometimes. He was better, much more astute, when it came to the political game. He could dissemble and prevaricate; manipulate his way through any parliamentary session. But when it came to affairs of the heart – love, trust and friendship – Henry could never conceal his true feelings. His heart was an open book and his reactions could be swift, hasty and vengeful.

"He was a friend," Henry sighed, looking up at the star strewn skies. "He will lose, but I won't win, either. No one wins, not really."

* * *

Nor did the Duke of Buckingham. The Royal army met with the Duke's rebel army outside Rochester, who promptly turned and fled for their lives. Francis led a troop of his own men across the countryside, chasing down who he could. But the efforts were only half-hearted. Edward Stafford, the Duke responsible for the rebellion, had already been apprehended by Henry's personal guard as they gained entry to the rebel camp under the pretence of negotiation. It was a sleight of hand on Henry's part, but one that just saved lives. Barely an arrow was fired, in the end.

The Duke's army consisted mainly of his own tenants – men who would have had no choice other than to follow their master into the absurd folly. Naturally, Henry pardoned them all unconditionally and their journey back to London continued in peace and celebration. Celebration, because every village and town they passed through saw the people on the streets cheering them to the skies as they went. However, after the anti-climax of the rebellion, Francis felt empty and dejected. Something King Henry quickly picked up on as they rode through the Home Counties.

"Frankie," Henry called out to him, reverting to an old pet name used in private. "You look thoroughly wretched."

Francis smiled. "You don't look so bad yourself, brother."

Henry laughed, reaching out and playfully swatting at Francis' leg. "Seriously, though, what's ailing you?"

Francis just shrugged. "I don't know. I think I just wanted something to actually happen."

He expected Henry to be angry with him for actually wanting a battle to break out. It taken their family years establish peace following years of bitter, inter-dynastic infighting. Now, here he was talking about it as if war was nothing more than a particularly intense jousting session. However, the King looked over at him sympathetically.

"I felt exactly the same when I was your age," he replied. "Everyone still treats you as a child when you're seventeen, but I had just become King and needed to prove I could lead a country to victory, not just an army."

Francis perked up a little. "That's what I mean," he replied. "I have a Dukedom, but a council to run it for me. I'm Lord of the North, in name only. But I am the same age you were when you got the whole of England. And how long did it take you to disestablish that protectorate our father set up for you? About a week, wasn't it?"

"Less than that!" Henry retorted. "Look, I have a suggestion. One that would give you the experience you need and get you out from under the Queen's petticoats at the same time."

Intrigued, Francis turned to look at Henry properly. "A foreign posting?"

"Sort of. I was thinking Scotland," he replied. "You have a sister you have never met there, Queen Margaret, and I know she longs to see you. Besides, I need someone reporting back to me and who else to trust but my own brother?"

Naturally, he had been hoping for France. But Thomas Boleyn had been the Ambassador there for over twenty years and it would be useless trying to unseat him. For one thing, Anne would return with him while he, Francis, would pass her coming in the opposite direction. Purpose resoundingly defeated. But, the more he thought of it, the more appealing Scotland became. As well as all the things Henry said, he hadn't included his own shadow in the things that Francis would be getting away from.

"I've always wondered about Margaret," he replied, truthfully. She was ruling Scotland in place of her young son, King James V. Her husband, the late King James IV had been killed in battle; his broken corpse dropped at the feet of the woman who led the opposing army: Queen Catherine of Aragon. Needless to say, the two Queens no longer had much in the way of sisterly affection for one another.

* * *

However, before Francis could seek his fortune in Scotland, he had the Duke of Buckingham to deal with. The day of his execution, several months after they arrived back in London, dawned bright and breezy. It was May, the start of spring almost a full year after rumours of his loyalty began to spread. It was only legal technicalities that had kept the Duke alive this long, and Henry and Wolsey were working to sort that out already.

As an official representative of the King, overseeing the King's own justice, Francis had to line up on the scaffold itself. For all his life, he had been sheltered from the harsher realities of the world and had never seen anyone die. He had certainly never witnessed an execution before. However, he lined up alongside the other officials and tried desperately not to tremble, or betray any other sign of nerves.

When the Duke was led up to the place of his death, Francis kept his eyes fixed firmly on the crowd of onlookers. But, his mind remained with the fallen Duke as he made his final speech, seeking forgiveness from God, the people and the King. Silently, he prayed along with the Duke as he knelt at the block and watched in silent, sickening horror as his head was struck from his body with an axe. As the blood spilled out over the wooden platform, Francis forced himself to watch what happened to traitors, to those who crossed the King.

* * *

**Apologies for this being something of a filler chapter, but there will be another time jump in the next, so the story can begin properly. Thanks for reading and reviews would be awesome.**


	8. Wilting on the Vine

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply: I own none of this. Thanks again for reading and, if you have a minute, reviews are very welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Wilting on the Vine**

_'My Dearest Francis,_

_I heartily commend me unto you, praying that this letter finds you in good health and high spirits. I and mine are all well, and I pray daily that it is ever the same for you and yours._

_When you wrote to me last you did so from your new home in Scotland. When you write to me again, I pray you to tell me all about it. How is your sister, the Queen? What is it really like that far north? I can imagine it only as a frozen, barren plain with freezing, barren people! The reality is, I am certain, almost completely different to how I imagine it to be and hope your enlightening reply will soon be in my hands. But Francis, how I yearn for it to be more than just the written word passing between us. I would that you were here, or me there, so we could see each other's faces and expressions as we speak these words that, at the moment, we can only write. Forgive me, I digress._

_Although it has been over a year since we last saw each other, I still think of you daily and wonder how you are doing. Every morning, I wait in the Presence Chamber looking out for messengers from King Henry, in the hope that news of you will be in their dispatches. Now, I do the same for Scotland since you are there and I am still here, wilting on the vine._

_As for the news we're getting from London, I hear that my Father is now to be made Earl of Wiltshire and my brother will become Viscount Rochford. No doubt, we have Mary's ongoing charms over King Henry to thank for this royal elevation. But I cannot wonder at how I am still left, almost forgotten I think, here in France. I am quite cut off from it all._

_I do not mean to complain, but I miss you as much now as I did more than a year ago and your letters aid as much as abet it. I still attend the ladies meetings with Lady Nan Saville (those special ones I told you about, with the special preacher and his rare bible). But, although it distracted me from missing you in the beginning, more and more I find myself wishing that you were there with me. I would so love to get your opinion and discuss these things with you directly in a way we cannot discuss in a letter. I think you know why that is._

_I suppose it must suffice, my love._

_Written by the hand of her who would as soon as possible be yours,_

_Anne Boleyn'_

"So, who is she?"

Francis folded Anne's letter away and promptly removed his feet from the table he'd propped them on. At the opposite end of the trestle, Margaret was eyeing him beadily, a mischievous smile playing at her lips as she popped a sugared almond into her mouth. He blushed under her relentless gaze.

"Come on, brother," she teased, ratcheting up the pressure. "Name her!"

He suppressed a smirk as he reached for a goblet of wine.

"She is Lady Anne Boleyn," he confessed. "Daughter of the Earl of Wiltshire."

"Urgh!" Margaret pulled a face. "Is she the sister of Henry's whore? That's the only reason her father got the earldom, isn't it? To stop the Ambassador moaning about his daughter's moral ruin. Which, unless I am mistaken, was already quite ruined long before our Harry got to her. That is, according to our French Ambassador."

That was uncharitable, or so Francis thought. But, he had grown close to Margaret. Ever since he had arrived in Scotland, almost eight months ago, he had been kept busy, made welcome and given the respect and responsibility of the titles he had held since birth. Margaret, who was no longer Queen Regent, was easy going and fundamentally lacking in formality. Her apartments in Linlithgow Palace were every bit as opulent as Henry's were back in London and she wanted for nothing. All of this, without the burden of state, which had fallen on her young son's ruling counsel. However, she was bored. Her agile mind was latching onto gossip and scandal as a means of keeping herself quick witted and agile. As evidenced by her casual dismissal of the Boleyn sisters.

"Mary has a heart of gold, Margaret," he replied, keeping his tone even. "Anne is nothing like Mary, either. Neither in looks, nor temperament."

Margaret's brow furrowed as she weighed up whether this was good, or bad. "Well, if she's not putting out to the French King, then anything after that is a bonus."

"How very magnanimous of you, Sister," he retorted, smirking all the same. "Trust me, Anne has more sense than Mary."

Without listening to Margaret's reply, Francis fished inside his pocket and took the letter out again. Instead of devouring every word Anne had written to him, he studied the flow of her hand; small smudges in the ink and a single crossing out. He traced his index finger along the indents of her pen, where her hand had held the same parchment as he let memories of France wash over him. It made him feel like a hopeless, lovelorn pup and he daren't admit it to Margaret. But, nonetheless, he found himself indulging often as he formulated a reply to her in his head.

Just as he was about the fold up the letter again, he felt a sharp sting against the side of his head as a sugared almond bounced off his temple. Startled, he snapped back to attention, shooting Margaret a sharp look down the length of the trestle table. "Ouch!" he protested, rubbing the affected spot. "What was that for?"

Her auburn hair shimmered in the firelight as she gave her head a slow shake. "Oh, brother," she sighed, smiling widely and revealing neat, white teeth. "You're in a world of your own. Is my scintillating conversation all too much for you?" She raised a brow, a silent indication that he should pick his next words wisely.

"I am all ears, sister," he said, sitting up straight in his seat. He'd stand to attention if he wasn't so lazy, these days.

"Good, they're pretty ears and I'd hate to have to cut them off," she replied, pointedly. "I was just saying: you do know the reason – the real reason – Henry has sent you here, don't you?"

Francis slouched back down in his seat and heaved a sigh. "Nothing was explicitly said, but I can guess," he answered, sotto voce. "He's hoping I'll meet and fall hopelessly in love with some obscure Scottish noblewoman with no claim to the English Crown whatsoever and never come home again."

"You should count yourself lucky, Francis," Margaret told him, turning serious. "Henry is giving you a choice, albeit a limited one. I didn't have a choice when I married King James; Mary had no choice when she married King Louis. We were our father's and our brother's, to do with as they commanded-"

"But what's wrong with marrying an obscure English noblewoman and never returning to Court again?" he asked, leaning forwards. "The first thing Mary did, when Louis died, was marry Charles Brandon who didn't have so much as a title, nor even a scrap of land to his name."

"For which Charles very nearly paid with his head," Margaret countered. "Only Henry's adoration of Mary, his friendship with Charles and a timely intervention from Cardinal Wolsey saved Charles' life. Speaking of which, how is your relationship with Henry these days?"

In the wake of her sobering words, Francis fell silent as he contemplated the full meaning of what she was saying. "Henry would never harm me," he said, finally. "He and I … we're not close. But we still get on well, Margaret. I have never given him trouble. And the Queen is all but a mother to me."

Margaret reached for a jug of wine and topped up their goblets. "Speaking of the Queen," she began. "I hear affections may not be quite so advantageous, these days."

Curiosity piqued, Francis regarded Margaret quizzically from over the rim of his goblet. "Why so?" he asked.

Margaret and Catherine were known for their equal disdain for one another. But, anything Margaret had to say about Catherine's position couldn't be altogether disregarded, either. So long as he was able to cut through Margaret's wishful thinking and dislike. His attention was rapt as he sat up to attention again.

* * *

Queen Catherine paused outside the King's Privy Chamber door, her hand poised on the handle. On the other side of the door, she could hear the muffled voice of Dr William Butts, deep in conversation with His Majesty. His tone was sombre, softly explaining to Henry in the couched terms of the medical profession, that he will never beget a son by the Queen, Catherine herself. In fact, they would have no more children at all. Hearing the prognosis all over again brought it all back to her: her failure, her losses, her heartbreak. Tears welled in her eyes, but went unshed.

A hand belonging to Maria de Salinas landed on Catherine's elbow and gently guided her away from the door. Mercifully, they were in the private gallery that connected Catherine's chambers to Henry's, so there were no Courtiers or hangers-on loitering nearby. There was just a discreet Guard, and the two women themselves.

"I did not mean to listen in," Catherine said to Maria as they walked back down the gallery. "I thought the Doctor would be finished, by now."

"I don't care about that," replied Maria. "It will do you no good to hear to those words again and that's what I do care about."

Catherine raised a wan smile as they stopped and faced each other.

"Henry will be so disappointed," she said, looking towards the doors of his chambers. It was as though she was trying to see through the wood itself. "I have never feared a discussion with him as much as I do this one."

Maria tried to support the Queen, she always had – ever since they left Spain as girls, all those years ago. By now, they had been in England together for so long that they could barely remember their homeland. All Catherine could recall was the heat, the battles; the lush countryside fading away to arid desert. Once, she saw the north coast of Africa – a place the rain soaked English could barely imagine, never mind place on a map. But after all this time, there was nowhere else Catherine would rather be but the rain soaked, wind-swept Island, just north of France. England.

She was jolted out of her private musing by the distant sound of a door closing. Dr Butts had left Henry's chambers and her moment with the King had come. After she and Maria had exchanged once last glance, Catherine made her way into the Privy Chamber alone. She found Henry still seated upon the dais, deep in thought as he presided over an empty, echoing chamber with just the dead-eyed portraits of his forebears for company. The sound of her entry attracted his distant attention and he looked to her from over a clenched fist as he chewed at a finger nail. It was an old, nervous habit of Henry's that he only ever dared show in front of Catherine, or no one at all. Now, he stopped doing it promptly as he pulled himself together and stepped off the dais to greet her with a formal bow.

"Cate," he greeted her just as he always did, but his tone was hollow and his smile didn't reach his sapphire eyes. When he kissed her hand, it was brisk and perfunctory. "How do you fare?"

"I am well," she replied. "I know I have failed you-"

"No, you have not," he cut her off, firmly and lead her up to the seat beside his on the dais. "God called our Princes home to him… It was His will… I-"

His words of comfort trailed off as he struggled to make sense of it. Despondent, Catherine could think of nothing to add, or anything that she could say that would make things any better. Her change had come; there would be no Prince and the realm remained just a heartbeat away from civil war. Henry needed a son; England needed an undisputed heir.

"What shall we do?" she asked, her tone flat.

"Princess Mary must go to Ludlow and prepare to be Queen," said Henry, his voice still distant. Catherine struggled not to show it, but her spirits suddenly soared. Henry continued: "The people will not accept a Queen, though. I fear it, Cate. How will Mary deal with open rebellion against her rule? How will she cope with battles and rival claimants all about her?"

"She will not be alone, Henry," replied Catherine, turning in her seat so that she fully faced the King. "Mary will have the best advisors and the strongest counsel. Maybe, the people will accept her."

The people had taken to Catherine readily enough, but she was not their Queen Regent; she was merely the Queen Consort. She had led English armies to victory and she had held the reins of government during Henry's foreign campaigns and the people cheered her name to the heavens if she so much as set a toe out of doors. But, she was still not their ruler. There was no absolute way to sooth Henry's fears of another Anarchy breaking out after his death. Even the most solemn oaths became redundant upon the death of the King to whom they were made. As Queen Matilda found out.

"If Francis marries and has sons," she said. "They will be a curse and a blessing in equal measure-"

"No," Henry cut her off. "Any sons Francis has will be rivals to Mary's crown. I had hoped he would find an unimportant wife in some remote estate in Scotland, but any woman who marries him now is a potential Queen Mother. By default of his position – as well as ours – a discreet marriage is simply not possible."

Inwardly, Catherine was deeply relieved. "Holy Orders?" she asked, meaning that Francis should join monastic life – a time honoured method of neutralising inconvenient relatives without resorting to cutting off their heads.

Henry dropped his head into his hands, pinching the tension at the bridge of his nose. "I don't know yet," he sighed. "Let us not think on it now. Give it time."

Catherine saw no harm in that. It would give them a much needed opportunity to think clearly and make their next move at leisure. They got up and prepared to retire for a meal, to be taken together. But, deep inside, Catherine could feel a distance opening up between her and her husband. A barrier she could not see.

* * *

_'Mine own darling, Anne_

_I cannot tell you how glad I was to have received your last letter. I assure you my health is good, but I still miss you more than words can express – especially at the hand of this poor penman!_

_Scotland is well; Margaret is well; everyone is well – the alliance I am building grows stronger by the day. The landscape is beyond describing, so I urge you, dear heart, to come here with all haste so you may see it for yourself. I also urge you homewards for reasons beyond those I can put in a letter, but I think things are changing in London. I don't yet know how I will be affected, but if I am, then it will affect you, too. Keep up the pressure on your father, and keep faith._

_Be assured always of my love for you and forgive the rude shortness of this letter. I hope to write more to you when I know it for sure. In the meantime, I beseech my Lady to favour me with regular news and letters from France._

_Be of good cheer, Anne, and we will be back in each other's arms again soon._

_Written by the poor hand of he who cannot think straight for loving you too much,_

_Francis of York, your devoted servant.'_

Between the platitudinous words of love and devotion, Anne could well see the worry in the letter from Francis. By the light of a single guttering candle, she read it through again before lifting her face towards the mullioned windows. Her pale reflection, mottled by the warped glass, frowned back at her disconcertingly. Outside, the day had long since faded to darkness and the Palace was winding down all around her. Nan Saville was at a meeting in a nearby tavern, and Anne was glad to have sat it out. She needed time to think.

Word from the English Court was that Queen Catherine is now barren. The implications of that were not lost on Anne – if she and Francis had a son, he would have a claim to the crown. The thought terrified and thrilled her in equal measure. She glanced back at the letter and read again the parts where Francis urged her to come home with haste. Of course, it was there in all of his letters. But, in this, his tone was different. It was abrupt and insistent, where previously it was flowery and lovelorn chivalry. There was more afoot, she could feel it in her very bones.

The plan formed slowly in her mind, blossoming in the darkening silence of her chambers. It was rough, at first, but slowly took root. She reached across the desk and withdrew a blank sheet of parchment to detail it in a letter to Francis. If Francis agreed, and if he could get Cardinal Wolsey on side, she would write to her father and implore him to recall her so her marriage to James Butler could at last be finalised. Then, as soon as she arrived, Wolsey would do what he did so well: find a problem with the details of the contract and annul the whole thing. She would be back in England, and free to marry Francis. Wolsey would be richly rewarded by them both, for his efforts. She set it all forth in the letter and signed and sealed it. No more was she willing to wilt on the vine.


	9. A Very Private Audience

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. I own none of this, beside my OC, Duke Francis.

**I doubt this story will be updated again before the Christmas season, so I want to wish everyone a merry Christmas and happy new year now. Have a good one!**

* * *

**Chapter Nine: A Very Private Audience**

Rain pattered softly against the mullions. Nevertheless, Thomas Boleyn was pulling on a thick travelling cloak and instructing a young Groom to oversee the procurement of a carriage to take him to London, as soon as possible. Behind him, in the doorway of the Great Hall of Hever castle, his wife appeared. Elizabeth Howard, the newly instated Countess of Wiltshire, fixed her husband with a gentle smile as she crossed the hallway to speak with him. Remaining behind, she was dressed in casual daywear of a simple gown, embellished with a shawl to ward off the chill of the season.

"All we need now is for George to be settled," she remarked, finding his hands with her own. "With Anne to be wed, Ormonde will be settled. But George is an asset, too."

As it happened, Thomas had already thought of that. Although, for now, all attention would be on Anne and James Butler, who still needed to be recalled from Dublin. His youngest daughter would make a fine Countess, but George had his own path to forge. He just needed the finances to do it, and that was where Lord Morley's eldest daughter, Jane Parker, came in.

"It might be hand," he assured her, kissing her cheek and explaining the negotiations he had opened with Henry Parker, Lord Morley. "With Anne definitely to be wed and George possibly to be wed, it makes up for Mary's rather less illustrious match with … what's his name again?"

He suppressed a laugh while Elizabeth landed a playful swat on his arm.

"Poor Henry Carey," Elizabeth sighed. "Word from Court is that, despite Mary's marriage, the King is still, er …_ fond_ … of her. Is there any possibility that the child in her belly is the Kings?"

Thomas took a deep breath and shrugged. "His Majesty will not acknowledge any child Mary bears since it is just as likely to be Carey's. And it is worth noting that since she got with child, the King has not called on Mary."

At that moment, the Groom reappeared and informed Thomas that his carriage was ready. Two more Grooms could be seen loading Thomas' traveling trunk onto the back of it, just through the arch of the doorway. It was almost time to go. He turned back to Elizabeth and tilted her chin up.

"I must go," he informed her. "Don't worry about Mary. She is, at least, settled independently of the King-"

"But she could have done so much better," Elizabeth cut in.

"What's done is done," he said, soothingly. Although they had benefited enormously from Mary's royal affair, they had both hoped for something more long term and stable for her. No one wanted to see their own daughter cast aside with a child of uncertain parentage in her belly. "Do not despair, Elizabeth. Anne's marriage will more than make up for it."

They embraced each other warmly, parting on a happy note and a kiss. He would be away at Court for anything up to six months. Elizabeth was used to running Hever alone, she had done it for most of her married life since he was an Ambassador in a foreign country. But this time, the pain of separation was dulled by the fact that when Thomas arrived in London, he would write to Anne to inform her that she is coming home. She had not seen her youngest daughter since she was twelve years old.

* * *

Linlithgow Palace rose above the skyline of Edinburgh, standing stark against the darkening sky. Pinpricks of light glittered in several of the Palace windows, affording the grey stone walls an appearance of glamour that shone over the city inhabitants, reflected in the placid surface of the loch. Francis took it in as he returned from leading a company of men on a patrol of the border.

It always felt good to be coming home after a six week mission, such as this one. He was stiff with cold; aching and blistered from the saddle while smelling of horse sweat and famished. But this moment, when he knew a hot bath, a good meal and his bed were only an hour's ride away, made Linlithgow a most beautiful sight. Once he had dismounted in the courtyard and handed his horse over to a stable boy, he set off towards the entrance, where Margaret was already waiting for him.

"Your Grace," he greeted her, stopping to bow (painfully) and kiss her hand a few steps down from where she stood.

When he stood up straight again, he looked at her properly. She was tall and willowy, wearing a simple, velvet gown that skimmed her hourglass figure; the silk rope that acted as a belt hung down, accentuating her height. Auburn hair loose and tumbling down her back, she looked every inch a Queen as she welcomed all of her returning Knights.

"Little brother," she smiled warmly, ruffling his hair. "You must be exhausted."

"That, I am," he heartily agreed, following her inside the Palace.

Keeping a respectful two paces behind her, Margaret had to glance over her shoulder as she spoke to him. "You will be delighted to know I have more work for you, then," she said. "Or, at least, His Eminence, Cardinal Wolsey does."

Francis' spirits sank. "Can I at least wash and eat, first?"

Margaret laughed. "He is the proudest prelate in all of Europe, brother. You must drop everything and see to his every command. Only then can you attend to such trifles as your hygiene and hunger."

Nevertheless, there was already a basin of steaming water waiting for him in his chambers. He stripped off without waiting for his Grooms and immediately began scrubbing the dirty from the road out of the pores of his skin. Spanish soap had been placed in a dish on a sideboard, and he luxuriated in the warm lather it made. Meanwhile, Margaret read out Wolsey's letter from where she reclined herself on his bed.

"A letter has already been despatched to Lady Anne, requiring her immediate return to London. There she will be presented to the King, who will hear her petition for permission to marry. Sadly, His Majesty has already been presented with an obstacle to said marriage and permission will be refused.

As Your Grace is aware, it will not be within my powers to keep Lady Anne at Court and she will be entirely beholden to the wishes of her father, Thomas Boleyn, Earl of Wiltshire. Your Grace's presence, in person, will therefore be required in London to fulfil your needs.

From the hand of your servant, Cardinal Wolsey of York."

Margaret folded the letter and sat up straight, just as Francis was buttoning up a fresh shirt. He turned to face her with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. Not even Margaret's lack of responding enthusiasm could dampen his spirits now. She waved the letter, shaking it at him.

"You have bribed Wolsey into freeing up your bride," she said. There was a clear ring of admonishment in her voice. "He has done all he can for you and will not risk the King's wrath should this go awry on you."

He shrugged. "All I need, is Lady Anne to be free again-"

"It's been almost four years since you saw her last," Margaret cut over him. "You're risking her future, as well as your own."

Francis turned serious, dropping his gaze as he smartened himself up by tucking his shirt in and flattening his unruly hair. "I know that," he replied in a voice barely above a whisper. "Which is why I was wondering…"

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet Margaret's, seeing if she knew where he was going or whether she was going to make him beg. It didn't look promising, but comprehension dawned in her expression and she sagged backwards against the mattress, heaving an exaggerated groan as she went. She lay like that, in silence, for a minute before pulling herself up again.

"If things get rough in London, and you marry without the King's permission, you want me to give you sanctuary," she finished his request for him.

"Please? We would love you forever," he cajoled.

"I should think my own brother would do that anyway," she replied, dryly. "But, Francis, Henry could make things difficult. And soon I am to remarry myself."

To Archibald Douglas, much to everyone's consternation. But, Margaret would not listen to reason in the issue. Again, it was everyone else who got to marry according to their heart's desire. He was bound by convention.

"If I can, you know I will," she finally said. "But it's no guarantee."

Whatever it was, it was good enough for Francis. He crossed the room and threw his arms around Margaret's shoulders, hugging her close. "Thank you, Sister," he said, muffled as he spoke into her hair. "Thank you! Thank you!"

Margaret brought a reluctant arm up and patted his shoulder. "I assume this means you will also beg my leave to return to London," she said, ruefully. "I shall miss you, Francis."

He would miss her, too.

* * *

Anne had the moment she stepped off the ship and touched English soil framed in her mind, forever. She had waited for almost twelve years to be recalled and she had forgotten what home looked like, smelled like and felt like. On her way to London, she rode horseback as much as she could, to take in the sweeping countryside and rolling hills of home. She needed to reacquaint herself with the small hamlets and villages, scattered around the bigger towns and the fewer cities.

Also, however, she would go mad with boredom if she was forced to endure the whole journey cooped up in the back of a carriage. Even with Nan for company, she would be fixated on the meeting ahead and her reunion with Francis. The gates of London couldn't loom up on the horizon quick enough.

Which they eventually did, almost three weeks after she had arrived in Southampton. Her journey had been lengthened by the poor conditions of the roads and spells of bad weather. She stayed overnight in a tavern in London city, from where she dashed off a letter to Francis, alerting him to her arrival. If she missed him, the rider would meet him on the north road, at some point. Or at least, she hoped he would.

However, it was not until the next day that she was reunited with her brother and father again. They were waiting for her at Court, dressed in their finery for her presentation to the King. She didn't see them, at first. There were too many people around, crowding about her and pressing petitions into the hands of anyone who looked even remotely official. But, after twenty minutes, the crowds parted and Anne saw her father beaming at her at the other end of the chamber.

"Anne!" he said, rushing over and embracing her warmly.

"Papa!" she replied, hugging him for dear life. When she drew away, she saw George hovering at his side, grinning and rocking back on his heels, waiting for his turn.

When George got a chance, he drew her aside, away from their father who had to be presented to the King first. They lost themselves among the other petitioners easily and concealed themselves in a small alcove.

"I don't know what's going on," said George. "I haven't heard from Francis in months. But I don't believe for a minute you want this wedding with Butler to go ahead. You're up to something, I can feel it."

Anne frowned and shushed him. "You'll see, brother," she replied, leading him back outside.

"Are you nervous about meeting the King?" he asked, once they were back in the throng.

"I've met him before," she replied, casually.

However, she still had butterflies fluttering in her stomach. She smoothed down her silk skirts and straightened her sleeves. Using the reflective surface of a nearby glass cabinet, she ensured that there was not a hair on her head out of place. Before long, the King's Chamberlain was back, signalling to Anne and George that their moment had come. They glanced at each other before George offered his arm to Anne, who brought her hand to rest on the crook of his elbow.

As soon as they entered the King's line of vision, they both sunk to their knees in the doorway. After a brief pause, they walked forward three steps before repeating the show of deference, their eyes fixed modestly downwards. Meanwhile, she heard her father addressing the King:

"Your Majesty, this is my daughter, Lady Anne Boleyn and my son, George Boleyn, Viscount Rochford."

After a brief pause, the King gave both Anne and George permission to rise and speak. When Anne was standing at her full height, she focused almost exclusively on King Henry. He was still much the same: tall, handsome and a commanding presence. He looked good for his thirty-three years. The Queen, on the other hand, had grown large, her hair was streaked heavily with grey and she over compensated for her fading looks with an overabundance of heavy jewels. They made a peculiar couple.

"Lady Anne," King Henry's voice drew her attention away from the Queen. "You are newly returned from France?"

Anne smiled pleasantly. "Yes, Your Majesty. I have come home to wed."

She could see the colour of his eyes: a rich, sapphire blue that was so reminiscent of Francis, it made her heart flutter. She couldn't help but hold his gaze as he looked her up and down, taking in her appearance.

"To James Butler, is that right?" he asked, leaning forwards in his seat, frowning to keep her in focus. His eye sight must have been weakening.

Finally, Anne lowered her eyes demurely. Appearing every inch the blushing maiden. "That is so, Your Grace," she confirmed. "I seek only your grace's blessing."

She turned her gaze up to the King, looking at him through lowered lashes. He had got to his feet and stepped down the dais to join her. He held out his arm, meaning for her to take it. She hadn't expected him to be so familiar and she found herself glancing about the room, for any indication of what she should do. Her father caught her eye, as he stood among some other courtiers. He nodded for her to go ahead. Tentatively, she laced her arm through the King's. As he walked her back down the length of the hall, she cast a nervous glance over her shoulder at the Queen. But, Catherine was already leaving, and she didn't look directly at anyone.

"Walk with me, Anne," the King was saying. "You and I must speak privately and you will come to understand why."

"Oh," she said, genuinely surprised, even though she already knew the reason why he was speaking privately with her. "Of course, Your Grace."

"I have already spoken with the Cardinal about this match," the King explained, once they had come to an ante chamber outside, away from everyone else. "Your match cannot go ahead, and I would not see you humiliated in front of the entire hall like that. Butler has withdrawn his offer."

Or been persuaded to, Anne thought silently to herself. However, she affected an air of disappointment. Taking a step back, she reclaimed her arm and turned away from the King. "Thank you, Your Majesty," she stammered. "For sparing my feelings like that. My father will be most grieved by this news."

"Leave your father to me," Henry replied, giving her a wink. "You say your father will be grieved. But, what about you? Are you saddened?"

Anne looked at him, again. Frowning as she marshalled her thoughts and gave a small nod. "I do not think it has sunk in yet, Your Grace," she replied, tremulous with feigned disappointment. "I thought everything had been prepared."

"Think no more on it, my lady," said Henry. "I will arrange for you to stay at Court. Since your sister left us, there has been a vacancy in the Queen's household."

Anne's nerves turned to panic, which she had to work hard to disguise as she began to harbour doubts about the King's motives. Either he was genuinely offering a place in Catherine's household, or he was offering Mary's vacancy in Catherine's household and his bed. Literally, a Mary replacement. She selected the truth as her weapon to deflect Henry from his intended course.

"Your Majesty, I have not seen my mother since I was twelve," she explained, careful to keep the haste from her tone. "A return to Hever is what I most need and desire-"

"Of course, My Lady," Henry cut over her, patting her arm genially.

Anne disguised her sigh of relief. Hever was also where she was hoping to be reunited with Francis. Her old friend, Thomas Wyatt, owned an estate nearby and would be perfect for her reunion with Francis. Deep in the heart of the English countryside; just the two of them. With that, their very private audience came to an abrupt end as he walked her back outside. As he led her through the presence chamber once more, he broke off to go and speak with her father, explaining the difficulties. Anne watched him for a moment, and breathed a sigh of relief.

* * *

Thanks again for reading. If you have a minute, reviews would be welcome.


End file.
